
Class 

Ronfc \5 

Copyright N°_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



New Dialogues and Plays 

FOR YOUNG PEOPLE, AGES FIFTEEN TO 

TWENTY-FIVE Z J 



ADAPTED FROM THE POPULAR WORKS OF 
WELL-KNOWN AUTHORS 



BY 

BINNEV GUNNISON 

Instructor in the School of Expression, Boston; formerly Instructor in Elocution in 
Worcester Academy, and in Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute 



Si 



HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE, Publishers 

31-33^35 West 15TH Street, New York City 



COPYRIGHT, 19OO, BY HINDS AND NOBLE 
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 



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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Oopies rteceived 

APR 17 1905 
Sopyngnt entry 

OUiSS 6& AXC. Not 
COPY 6. 



PREFACE 



A collection of Dialogues and Plays suited to the higher 
grades of school work should not only embody suggestions 
and directions for the external features of the play, but there 
should be shown throughout the book a' high regard for 
literary and dramatic merit. 

This collection has been planned so that the student may, 
by reading the introduction and the play, enter into its full 
spirit. When this is done the enthusiasm of the student 
and participant in the presentation supplements the work 
of the manager and a spirited and real rendering of the play 
is effected. 

These plays are such that the student may by their study 
gain a lively taste for dramatic art, and the reading of them 
will enable the student to select the character to which he is 
best adapted, taking into consideration physical, intellec- 
tual, and emotional qualities. 

The study of the play may suggest changes from the plans, 
costumes, furniture, and other stage fixtures, and it will be 
well to bear in mind that the suggestions herein contained 
are only suggestions. 



in 



Some new Speakers 



The Best American Orations of To-day (Blackstone) $1.25 

Selected Readings from the Most Popular Novels - 1 .00 

Pieces That Have Taken Prizes in Speaking Contests 1.25 
New Pieces That Will Take Prizes in Speaking Contests 1.25 

Pieces for Every Occasion (Le Row) - - - 1 .25 

How to Attract and Hold an Audience (Esenwein) 1. 00 

How to Use the Voice in Reading and Speaking (Ott) 1.25 

How to Gesture, New Illustrated Edition (Ott) - 1. 00 

A Ten Weeks' Course in Elocution (Coombs) - 1.25 

Fenno's New Science and Art of Elocution - - 1.25 

Three-Minute Declamations for College Men - 1. 00 

Three-Minute Readings for College Girls - - 1.00 

Handy Pieces to Speak (on cards) - - - - .50 

Acme Declamation Book ----- .50 

Ross' Southern Speaker - - - - - 1. 00 

New Dialogues and Plays (Primary, Inter. , Adv.) 1.50 

Commencement Parts (Orations, Essays, etc.) - 1.50 

Pros and Cons (Questions of To-day Fully Discussed) 1.50 

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Palmer's New Parliamentary Manual - - - .75 

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HINDS, NOBLE & ELDREDGE 
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TABLE OF CONTENTS 



HUMOROUS. 

The French Duel Mark Twai?i I 

Mrs. Hardcastle's Journey - - Oliver Goldsmith - - - 12 

A Matter of Duty Anthony Hope - - - - 18 

Pride against Pride Westland Marston • - - 25 

Tom and Roxy Mark Twain 39 

A Disastrous Announcement- - Charles Dickens - . - • 47 

Miss Judith Macan Charles Lever 53 

Helen and Modus Sheridan Knowles ... 62 

Sam Weller and his Father- - - Charles Dickens - - - 73 

Extracting a Secret F. Marion Crawford - • 78 

Open or Shut Alfred de Musset - - » - 84 

Taming a Wife John Tobin - • • ■- 94 

The Prairie Princesses ••--117 

SERIOUS. 

The Suffering of Nehushta - - - F. Marion Crawford • 129 

" Gentlemen, the King ! " - - • Robert Barr - - - - 139 

Ben-Hur and Iras Lew Wallace - - - - 149 

Savonarola and Lorenzo - - - Alfred Austin - - - 157 

Tito's Armor- - George Eliot - - - - 164 

Love Conquers Revenge - - - Robert Byr - - - - 173 

Becket Saves Rosamund- - - - Alfred, Lord Tennyson - - 180 

The Princess and the Countess - R. L. Stevenson - - - - 187 

Queen Catherine Shakespeare 193 

Deacon Brodie Henley and Stevenson - 200 

Pizarro and Rolla Richard Brinsley Sheridan- 207 

Raimond Released Mrs. Felicia Hemans - - 213 

Mrs. Hanvood's Secret - - - - Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant - 218 

Innocence Rewarded - - - - Oliver Goldsmith • - • 231 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 



Adapted from " A Tramp abroad," by Mark Twain. 



CHARACTERS. 

Gambetta, a very tall, fleshy man, with black pointed beard 
and long straight moustache. 

Fourtou, a small, thin man, adversary to Gambetta. 

Mark Twain, thin, of medium height, with gray drooping 
moustache, second to Gambetta. 

Pompadour, a tall, thin man, with long curled moustache 
and imperial, dressed like a dancing master and carry- 
ing gloves ; second to Fourtou. 

M. Noir, a journalist. 

Surgeons, undertakers, police and a crowd. 

Situation. — M. Gambetta, andM. Fourtou have quarreled 
in the French Assembly and the inevitable result is a 
great public duel. Mark Twain hears of the quarrel 
and immediately hurries to assist his friend, M. Gam- 
betta. 

The dialogues occur in three places, in the reception 
room of M. Gambetta, in a hotel parlor, where the 
seconds meet, and in afield. 

hi the beginning Gambetta is very quick and nervous, 
while Mark Twain is very slow and deliberate. They 
make a strong contrast. M. Fourtou has 770 thing to 
say and only appears in the last scene. M. Noir ap- 
pears for only a minute and simply bows thanks. M. 



2 THE FRENCH DUEL. 

Gambetta always has a memorandum book with him. 
In the last scene, as there is not room for thirty-five 
yards to be measured off on the platform, the two seconds 
should place a mark for Gambetta in plain sight on 
one side, and place Fourtou out of sight opposite him. 
Fourtou is so far away and the fog is so dense that 
Gambetta cannot see his adversary at all Practically 
Gambetta fires into space and falls on Mark Twain. 

Scene I. 

Gambetta is stamping about his reception room as Mark 
Twain enters. He throws his arms round Mark Twain's 
neck, kisses him on both cheeks, hugs him four or five 
times and seats him in his ar??i-chair. 

Twain. — I suppose you wish me to act as your second. 

Gambetta. — Of course. 

Twain. — You have drawn up your will? 

Gambetta. — Oh, no, no, that will not be necessary. 

Twain. — I shall insist upon it. I never heard of a man 
in his right mind going out to fight a duel without first 
making his will. 

Gambetta. — I never heard of a sane man doing any- 
thing of the kind; but if you insist I will make it. — {He 
walks in agitation back and forth a mo me ?it thinking deeply.) 
— My friend, how do these words strike you for a dying ex- 
clamation — " I die for my God, for my country, for freedom 
of speech, for progress, and the universal brotherhood of 
man ! " 

Twain {with some hesitation, shaking his head) . — That 
would require too lingering a death. It would be a good 
speech for a consumptive — It is scarcely suited to exigencies 
of the field of honor. 

Gambetta (he has been mumbling over words to hi?n- 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 3 

self and at last bursts out). — Well, how's this? "I die 
that France may live ! " 

Twain (as if a little afraid of offending). — That is better, 
but it does not seem to have much connection with the 
case. 

Gambetta. — Oh, relevancy is of no consequence in last 
words; what you want is thrill. {He pulls out his mem 
orandum book and writes?) "I — die — that — France — may 
—live ! " 

Twain {after a moment's pause). — The next thing in or- 
der is the choice of weapons. 

Gambetta (nervously). — My friend, I am not well. I 
will leave that and the other details of the meeting to you. 
{He goes out.) 

Twain {looking after him with a calm smile) . — Just as I 
expected — steeped in a profound French calm ! — Well, the 
weapons ! (Rises, goes to the desk and writes. He reads a 
few words aloud.) Sir: M. Gambetta — accepts — M. 

Fourtou's — challenge (He folds up the note, puts it in 

an envelope, and seals it. He rises, finds his hat and gloves 
and goes out.) 

Scene II. 

The Reception Room of a Hotel. M. Pompadour is looking 
in a mirror adjusting his cravat when Mark Twain 
enters with a letter. 

Twain. — Are you M. Fourtou's second? 

Pompadour. — I have that honor. 

Twain. — Then this is for you. (He hands him the note.) 

Pompadour (he receives the note with a profound bow, 
turns to the furthest corner of the platform, opens note and 
reads aloud). — " Sir : — M. Gambetta accepts M. Fourtou's 
challenge, and authorizes me to propose Plessis-Piquet as 
the place of meeting ; to-morrow morning at daybeak as 



4 THE FRENCH DUEL. 

the time \ and axes as the weapons. I am, sir, with great 
respect, Mark Twain." {He shudders at the word "axes." 
He holds note folded in his hand, turns back to Twain and 
says solemnly.} Have you considered, sir, what would be 
the inevitable result of such a meeting as this? 

Twain. — Well, for instance, what would it be ? 

Pompadour. — Bloodshed ! 

Twain. — That's about the size of it. Now, if it is a fair 
question, what was your side proposing to shed? 

Pompadour {a shocked look comes over his face) . — Well, 
a — a — I will explain myself. — I spoke jestingly. A — a — 
I — and my principal would enjoy axes, — and — indeed, pre- 
fer them, — but such weapons are barred by the French 
code, and 

Twain. — And so I must change my proposal. {He 
walks the floor a moment, then stops shorty I propose 
Gatling guns at fifteen paces. 

Pompadour {shaking his head). — The code is again in 
the way. 

Twain. — Rifles! {Pompadour shakes his head.) Double- 
barreled shot guns ! {Another shake of the head.) Colt's 
navy revolvers ! {Another shake. Twain reflects a moment.) 
I suggest brick-bats at three-quarters of a mile. 

Pompadour. — Ah, monsieur, I will submit this last pro- 
position to my principal. {He retires?) 

Twain {looking round very much astonished) . — What ? : — 
That beats me ! He probably never heard a joke. 
Pompadour re-enters. 

Pompadour. — Sir, my principal is charmed with the idea 
of brick-bats at three-quarters of a mile, but must decline on 
account of the danger to disinterested parties passing be- 
tween. 

Twain. — Well, I am at the end of my string, now. Per- 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 5 

haps you would be good enough to suggest a weapon. 
Perhaps you have even had one in your mind all the time. 

Pompadour. — Oh, without doubt, monsieur ! {He 
searches his pockets and mutters to himself,) Now what 
could I have done with them ? {He brings at last from his 
vest pocket two small toy pistols. He ha7ids them to Twain.) 

Twain {He goes across the roo)7i uncertain what he holds.) 
— Oh ! Pistols ! {He hangs one on his watch-chain and 
returns the other. Pompadour now unrolls a postage stamp 
containing cartridges and gives o?ie cartridge to Twain.) 
Does this mean that our men are to be allowed but one 
shot apiece? 

Pompadour. — Ah, monsieur, the French code allows no 
more. 

Twain {in despair at the French code). — I beg you, go 
on. Suggest a distance — My mind is growing weak under 
this strain. 

Pompadour. — Sixty-five yards. 

Twain {in great anger). — Sixty-five yards, with these in- 
struments? Squirt-guns would be deadlier at fifty. Con- 
sider, my friend, you and I are banded together to destroy 
life, not make it eternal. 

Pompadour. — Ah, monsieur, make it fifty yards but sixty- 
five is better. 

Twain. — There is no use in fighting at that distance. 
Put it thirty-five and I'll let you off. 

Pompadour {sighing and throwing up his hands inp?vtesta- 
tiofi). — I wash my hands of this slaughter ; on your head 
be it. {He goes out and then Twain goes out on the other 
side.) 

Scene III. 
As in Sce?ie I. the Reception Room of M. Gambetta. Gam- 
betta is i?i greac agitation and has just torn a hand- 



6 THE FRENCH DUEL. 

ful of hair out and laid it on the table as Twain enters 
on the opposite side, 

Gambetta {springing toward Twain). — You have made 
the fatal arrangements, — I see it in your eye! 

Twain. — I have. 

Gambetta {He leans on the table for support He 
bi'eathes heavily for a moment, then hoarsely whispers.) — 
The weapon, the weapon ! Quick ! what is the weapon? 

Twain. — This ! {He displays with some contempt the 
tiny pistol and Gambetta faints away. Twain tries in vain 
to raise him.) 

Gambetta (mournfully, after he has come to). — The un- 
natural calm to which I have subjected myself has told 
upon my nerves. But away with weakness ! {He rises to 
his feet.) I will confront my fate like a man and a French- 
man. {He assumes an attitude of statuesque sublimity?) 
Behold I am calm, I am ready ; reveal to me the distance. 

Twain. — Thirty-five yards. 

Gambetta {he falls to the floor again, Twain rolls him 
over and pours a glass of water down his back, at last he 
revives, sits up and says). — Thirty-five yards — without a 
rest? But why ask? Since murder was that man's inten- 
tion, why should he palter with small details? But mark 
one thing : in my fall the world shall see how the chivalry 
of France meets death. (He rises to his feet and after a 
pause speaks?) Was nothing said about that man's family 
standing up with him, as an offset to my bulk? But no 
matter : I would not stoop to make such a suggestion ; if 
he is not noble enough to suggest it himself, he is welcome 
to this advantage, which no honorable man would take. 
(He sinks into a sort of stupor of reflection, from which he 
rouses himself.) The hour, — what is the hour of the col- 
lision? 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 7 

Twain. — Dawn, to-morrow. 

Gambetta (astonished). — Insanity ! I never heard of 
such a thing. Nobody is abroad at such an hour. 

Twain. — That is the reason I named it. Do you mean 
to say you want an audience ? 

Gambetta {impatiently). — It is no time to bandy words. 
I am astonished that Monsieur Fourtou should ever have 
agreed to so strange an innovation. Go at once and re- 
quire a later hour. (He waves his hand and goes out.) 

Twain (he snatches his hat and rushes out of the opposite 
door only to encounter M. Fourtou' s second. He backs 
courteously into the room and ushers in Af. Pompadour, how 
is followed by another man, M. Noir). — I beg your pardon 
sir, I was looking for you. 

Pompadour. — I have the honor to say that my principal 
strenuously objects to the hour chosen, and begs you will 
consent to change it to half past nine. 

Twain (with a smile of great satisfaction) . — Any courtesy, 
sir, which it is in our power to extend is at the service of 
your excellent principal. We agree to the proposed change 
of time. 

Pompadour. — I beg you to accept the thanks of my 
client. — (He turns to the man behind him) — You hear, M. 
Noir, the hour is altered to half past nine. (M. Noir bows 
and departs.) — (To Twain) If agreeable to you, your chief 
surgeons and ours shall proceed to the field in the same 
carriage, as is customary. 

Twain. — It is entirely agreeable to me, and I am obliged 
to you for mentioning the surgeons, for I am afraid I should 
not have thought of them. How many shall I want? I 
suppose two or three will be enough ? 

Pompadour. — Two is the customary number for each 
party. I refer to "chief" surgeons; but considering the 



8 THE FRENCH DUEL. 

exalted positions occupied by our clients, it will be well 
and decorous that each of us appoint several consulting 
surgeons, from among the highest in the profession. These 
will come in their own private carriages. Have you en- 
gaged a hearse? 

Twain (amazed). — Bless my stupidity, I never thought 
of it ! I will attend to it right away. I must seem very 
ignorant to you ; but you must try to overlook that because 
I have never had any experience of such a swell duel as 
this before. I have had a good deal to do with duels on 
the Pacific coast, but I see now they were crude affairs. 
A hearse, — sho ! we used to leave the elected lying around 
loose, and let anybody cord them up and cart them off that 
wanted to. Have you anything further to suggest? 

Pompadour. — Nothing, except that the head undertakers 
shall ride together, as is usual. The subordinates and mutes 
will go on foot, as is also usual. I will see you at eight 
o'clock in the morning and we will then arrange the order 
of the procession. I have the honor to bid you a good 
day. {He goes out with an elaborate flourish of his hand. 
Twain knocks on the inner door and soon Gambetta issues 
from it.) 

Gambetta. — Ah, back again ! at what hour is the engage- 
ment to begin? 

Twain. — Half past nine. 

Gambetta. — Very good indeed. Have you sent the fact 
to the newspapers ? 

Twain {in horror). — Sir ! If after our long and intimate 
friendship you can for a moment deem me capable of so 
base a treachery 

Gambetta. — Tut, tut ! What words are these my dear 
friend? Havel wounded you? Ah, forgive me; I am 
overloading you with labor. Therefore go on with the 



THE FRENCH DUEL. 9 

other details, and drop this one from your list. The bloody- 
minded Fourtou will be sure to attend to it. Or I myself — 
yes, to make certain, I will drop a note to my journalistic 
friend, Monsieur Noir 

Twain ( in great relief} . — Oh, come to think, you may 
save yourself the trouble \ that other second has informed 
Monsieur Noir. 

Gambetta. — H'm ! I might have known it. It is just 
like that Fourtou, who always wants to make a display. 

Twain. — Now if you wish me to take charge of your 
will 

Gambetta. — Oh, yes ; yes, that will -a-a-a-(/z<? i-etires to 
the inner room). 

Scene IV. 

The Duel — a Field — Thick Fog. The duellists sit very near 
the fro?it of the platform, but as far apart as possible, 
with their backs towards the cenfre of the platform. 
Fourtou stares straight in front of him ; Gambetta 
studies diligently his memorandum book and mutters 
?W70 and then " I die that France may live. ,, Across 
the back of the platform file very solemnly two poet- 
orators with their funeral orations projecting from their 
coat pockets, surgeons with frightful cases of instru- 
ments y camp-followers > police and citizens. The tzvo 
seconds consult a little to one side. 
Pompadour. — Let us place a mark here {lie is standing 
on the extreme side of the platj c orm) and then pace off the 
distance in that direction (lie points to the opposite side). 

Twain. — That suits me to a dot. {They cross the plat- 
form in step and apparently continue on beyond. They come 
back and approach their principals.) 



IO THE FRENCH DUEL. 

Twain. — Monsieur Gambetta, are you ready? 

Gambetta (expanding to enormous width) . — Ready ! let 
the batteries be charged. (The two seconds load the pistols 
in plain sight of all concerned and then station Gambetta 
on the mark set for him, but march Fourtou off the platform 
opposite Gambetta, Twain returns to his principal, A 
police officer now steps up to Twain and whispers in his 
ear,) 

Twain (holding up his hand to stop proceedings) , — A delay 
is begged while these poor people (a number have gathered 
in the centre of the back of the platform) be put in a place 
of safety. Let them take position behind the duellists. — 
(He turns to his pri?icipal who has turned about and seems 
disheartened.) Indeed, sir, things are not as bad as they 
seem. Considering the character of the weapons, the 
limited number of shots allowed, the generous distance and 
the added fact that one of the combatants is one-eyed and 
the other cross-eyed and near-sighted, it seems to me that 
this conflict- need not necessarily be fatal. There are 
chances that both of you survive. Therefore cheer up ; do 
not be downhearted. 

Gambetta. — I am myself again ; give me the weapon. 
(He receives the tiny thing in his great palm and shudders,) 
Alas, it is not death I dread but mutilation. 

Twain. — Sir, you have every reason to expect the most 
honorable treatment from all concerned. You have every 
hope of success. Be heartened and stand firm. 

Gambetta ( encouraged ) , — Let the tragedy begin. Stand 
at my back ; do not desert me in this solemn hour, my 
friend. 

Twain. — I promise. (He assists him to point the pistol.) 
Now listen to the whoop of the other second. (He props 
himself against Gambetta } s back and shouts) Whoop-ee ! 



THE FRENCH DUEL. II 

(This is answered by a faint whoop in the distance.) — One, 
— two, — three, — fire ! {The two tiny pistols go off with a 
spit ! spit ! and Twain is crushed down to the floor beneath 
the enormous weight of Gambetta.) 

Gambetta {with haste and confusion). — i die for 

perdition take it, what is it I die for ? oh, yes, — France ! 

I die that France may live! (The surgeons swarm round 
Gambetta with probes and ?nicroscopes but find no wound. 
He rises, rushes into the arms of his adversary. Everybody 
embraces his neighbor except Twain y who raises himself dis- 
consolately on one hand and looks round with agony in his 
face. The surgeons soon come to him and knead him over, 
withdraw to one side for consultation, make some ?notions 
and some ?nen pick him up. A procession is formed with 
Twain, thus carried, at the head. For an instant they halt 
while Gambetta says distinctly, pointing to T'wain.) 

Gambetta. — I am proud to know the only man who has 
been hurt in a French duel in forty years. {The procession 
then goes out.) 



MRS. HARDCASTLE'S JOURNEY. 



Adapted from " She Stoops to Conquer," by Oliver Goldsmith. 



CHARACTERS. 

Hastings, a well dressed, polite young man from the city. 

Tony, a big, awkwai-d youth from the count ?y 9 rough and 
coarsely dressed. 

Mr. Hardcastle, a hearty out-spoken far??ier 9 vigorous in 
mind and body. 

Mrs. Hardcastle, a nervous excitable woman in gaudy at- 
tire, spattered ivith mud and water. 

Situation. — Mrs. Hardcastle objects to the attentions which 
Hastings pays her niece Constance Neville. In order 
to separate them she orders Tony, although the night is 
dark, to drive Constance and herself to his Aunt 
Pedigree's, twenty miles away. Tony in the interest of 
Hastings, who has planned to elope with Constance, 
plays a trick on the ladies and lands them at the foot 
of their own garden. His hard drive of three hours 
has so tired his mother's horses that it is impossible to 
pursue the eloping couple. 

Scene. — The back of a garden. 

Enter Hastings, looking round for some one. 

Hastings. — What an idiot I am to wait here for a fellow 
who probably takes delight in mortifying me ! He never 
intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no longer. {He 

12 



MRS. HARDCASTLE'S JOURNEY. 13 

starts away but stops.) What do I see? It is he, and 
perhaps with news of my Constance. 

Enter Tony with high top boots, spattered with mud. 
My honest squire ! I now find you a man of your word. 
This looks like friendship. 

Tony. — Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you 
have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by 
night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook me 
worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 

Hastings. — But how ? Where did you leave your fellow 
travellers? Are they in safety? hxt they housed? 

Tony. — Five-and- twenty miles in two hours and a half is 
no such bad driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it. 
Rabbit me, but I'd rather ride forty miles after a fox, than 
ten with such varment. 

Hastings. — Well, but where have you left the ladies? I 
die with impatience. 

Tony. — Left them? Why, where should I leave them, 
but where I found them? 

Hastings. — This is a riddle. 

Tony. — Riddle me this then. What's that goes round 
the house, and round the house, and never touches the 
house? 

Hastings. — I'm still astray. 

Tony. — Why, that's it, mon. I have led them astray. 
By jingo, there's not a pond or slough within five miles of 
the place, but they can tell the taste of. 

Hastings. — Ha, ha, ha ! I understand : you took them 
in a round, while they supposed themselves going forward. 
And so you have at last brought them home again. 

Tony. — You shall hear. I first took them down Feather- 
bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled 
them crack over the stones of Up-and-Down Hill — I then 



14 MRS. HARDCASTLE' S JOURNEY. 

introduced them to the gibbet, on Heavy-tree Heath ; and 
from that with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in 
the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden. 

Hastings. — But no accident, I hope. 

Tony. — No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. 
She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey, 
and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if your own horses be 
ready, you may whip off with cousin, and I'll be bound 
that no soul here can budge a foot to follow you. 

Hastings. — My dear friend, how can I be grateful? — 
But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the 
old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young 
one. 

Tony. — Never fear me. (He hears a noise, looks off to 
the side of the platform and then speaks.} Here she comes. 
Vanish ! She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the 
waist like a mermaid. (Hastings hurries out on one side 
while Mrs. Hardcastle staggers in on the other,) 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Oh, Tony, I'm killed — shook — 
battered to death. I shall never survive it. That last jolt, 
that laid us against the quickset hedge, has done my busi- 
ness. 

Tony. — Alack ! mamma, it was your own fault. You 
would be for running away by night, without knowing one 
inch of the way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — I wish we were at home again, I never 
met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in 
the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast in a slough, 
jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way ! Whereabouts 
do you think we are, Tony? 

Tony. — By my guess we should be upon Crackskull Com- 
mon, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Oh, lud ! oh, lud ! the most notori- 



MRS. HARDCASTLE S JOURNEY. 1 5 

ous spot in all the country. We only want a robbery to 
make a complete night on't. 

Tony. — Don't be afraid, mamma ! don't be afraid. Two 
of the five that were kept here are hanged, and the other 
three may not find us. Don't be afraid. (He suddenly 
starts.) Is that a man that's galloping behind us? No, its 
only a tree. Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — The fright will certainly kill me. 

Tony {starting again). — Do you see anything like a 
black hat moving behind the thicket? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Oh, death ! 

Toxy. — No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma : 
don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
coming towards us. Ah ! I'm sure on't. If he perceives 
us, we are undone. 

Toxy (aside). — Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come 
to take one of his night walks. [To her.) Ah ! it's a high- 
wayman, with pistols as long as my arm. An ill-looking 
fellow. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Good Heaven, defend us ! He 
approaches. 

Toxy. — Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave 
me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll cough and 
cry — hem ! When I cough, be sure to keep close, f Mrs, 
Hardcastle hides.) 

Enter Mr. Hardcastle, looking round. 

Hardcastle. — I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people 
in want of help. ( Tony steps away from his mother's hiding 
place to meet his father-in-law.) Oh, Tony, is that you? 
I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and 
her charge in safety? 

Tony. — Very safe, sir, at my Aunt Pedigree's. Hem ! 



1 6 MRS. hardcastle's journey. 

Mrs. Hardcastle {she speaks to herself from behind the 
bush). — Ah, death ! I find there's danger. 

Hardcastle. — Forty miles in three hours; sure that's 
too much, my youngster. 

Tony. — Stout horses and willing minds make short jour- 
ney, as they say. Hem ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle {she pops her head out). — Sure he'll do 
the dear boy no harm ! 

Hardcastle. — But I heard a voice here ; I shall be glad 
to know from whence it came. 

Tony. — It was I, sir ; talking to myself, sir. I was say- 
ing that forty miles in three hours was very good going — 
hem ! As to be sure it was — hem ! I have got a sort of 
cold by being out in the air. We'll go in, if you please — 
hem ! {He moves a little farther away from his mother's 
hiding-place.) 

Hardcastle. — But if you talked to yourself you did not 
answer yourself. I am certain I heard two voices and am 
resolved {raising his voice) to find the other out. 

Mrs. Hardcastle {looking out). — Oh! he's coming to 
find me out. Oh ! 

Tony {trying to detain hi?n, getting in his way, etc). — 
What need you go, sir, if I tell you — hem ! I'll lay down 
my life for the truth — hem ! I'll tell you all, sir 

Hardcastle. — I tell you, I will not be detained. I in- 
sist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle {running forward fro in behind). — Oh, 
lud, he'll murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, good 
gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my money, my 
life ; but spare that young gentleman, spare my child, if 
you have any mercy. 

Hardcastle. — My wife ! as I'm a Christian. From 
whence can she come, or what does she mean? 



MRS. HARDGASTLE'S JOURNEY. 1 7 

Mrs. Hardcastle {kneeling). — Take compassion on us, 
good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, 
all w r e have \ but spare our lives. We will never bring you 
to justice ; indeed, we won't, good Mr. Highwayman. 

Hardcastle. — I believe the woman's out of her senses. 
What ! Dorothy, don't you know me? 

Mrs. Hardcastle {she starts up to her feet). — Mr. Hard- 
castle, as I'm alive ! My fears blinded me. But who, my 
dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this fright- 
ful place, so far from home ? What has brought you to 
follow us? 

Hardcastle. — Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits? So far from home, when you are within forty yards 
of your ow r n door? {To him.) This is one of your old 
tricks, you graceless rogue, you. {To her.) Don't you 
know 7 the gate, and the mulberry tree? and don't you re- 
member the horse-pond, my dear? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
pond as long as I live : I have caught my death in it. {To 
Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe all 
this? I'll teach you to abuse your mother, I will. 

Tony. — Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled 
me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. — I'll spoil you, I will. {She follows 
him as he hastens away off the platform.) 

Hardcastle. — There's morality however in his reply. 
'He has a knowing look as he goes out.) 



A MATTER OF DUTY. 



Adapted from " The Dolly Dialogues," by Anthony Hope. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Carter, a ivell dressed man, rejected lover of Lady 

MlCKLEHAM. 

Lady Mickleham, a beautiful young lady just married to 
young Lord Archibald Mickleham. 

Situation. — Lady Mickleham is back from her hofieymoon. 
She has summoned Mr. Carter, a former suitor, to an 
afternoon tete-a-tete. She carries a fan and he has 
near him his hat. Her mother-in-law is referred to as 
the Dowager, a stern, uncompromising woman, who 
lives at The Towers. 

Lady Mickleham and Mr. Carter sit conversing with an 
afternoon tea-table between them. 

Mr. Carter. — I didn't know you were back. 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, we've been back a fortnight, 
but we went to The Towers. They were all there, Mr. 
Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — All who? 

Lady Mickleham. — All Archie's people. The Dowager 
said we must get really to know one another as soon as 
possible. I'm not sure I like really knowing people. 
It means that they say whatever they like to you, and don't 
get up out of your favorite chair when you come in. 

18 



A MATTER OF DUTY. I 9 

Mr. Carter. — I agree that a trace of unfamiliarity is not 
amiss. 

Lady Mickleham. — Of course, it's nice to be one of the 
family. 

Mr. Carter. — The cat is that. I would not give a fig 
for it. 

Lady Mickleham. — And the Dowager taught me the 
ways of the house. 

Mr. Carter. — Ah, she taught me the way out of it. 
{He picks up his hat which is on a chair near by.) I do 
not, however, see how I can help in all this, Lady Mickleham ! 

Lady Mickleham. — How funny that sounds ! 

Mr. Carter. — Aren't you accustomed to your dignity yet? 

Lady Mickleham. — I meant from you, Mr. Carter. It 
wasn't that I wanted to ask you about. {She sighs.) It 
was about something much more difficult, you won't tell 
Archie, will you? 

Mr. Carter {putting down his hat). — This becomes in- 
teresting. 

Lady Mickleham. — You know, Mr. Carter, that before I 
was married — oh, how long ago it seems ! 

Mr. Carter. — Not at all. 

Lady Mickleham. — Don't interrupt. That before I was 
married, I had several — that is to say, several — well, sev- 
eral 

Mr. Carter {encouragingly). — Start quite afresh. 

Lady Mickleham. — Well, then, several men were silly 
enough to think themselves — you know. 

Mr. Carter {cheerfully) . — No one better. 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, if you won't be sensible ! — Well, 
you see many of them are Archie's friends, as well as mine ; 
and of course they've been to call. 

Mr. Carter. — It is but good manners. 



20 A MATTER OF DUTY. 

Lady Mickleham. — One of them waited to be sent for, 
though. 

Mr. Carter. — Leave that fellow out. 

Lady Mickleham. — What I want to ask you is this — and 
I believe you're not silly, really, you know, except when you 
choose to be. 

Mr. Carter. — Walk in the Row any afternoon, and you 
won't find ten wiser men. 

Lady Mickleham. — It's this. Ought 1 to tell Archie? 

Mr. Carter. — Good gracious ! Here's a problem ! 

Lady Mickleham. — Of course. (Opening her fan.) It's 
in some ways more comfortable that he shouldn't know. 

Mr. Carter. — For him? 

Lady Mickleham. — Yes — and for me. But then it 
doesn't seem quite fair. 

Mr. Carter. — To him? 

Lady Mickleham. — Yes — and to me. Because if he 
came to know from anybody else, he might exaggerate the 
things, you know. 

Mr. Carter. — Impossible ! 

Lady Mickleham. — Mr. Carter ! 

Mr. Carter. — I — er — mean he knows you too well to ao 
such a thing. 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, I see. Thank you. Yes. What 
do you think? 

Mr. Carter. — What does the Dowager say? 

Lady Mickleham. — I haven't mentioned it to the Dowa- 
ger. 

Mr. Carter. — But surely, on such a point, her exper- 
ience 

Lady Mickleham (decisively) . — She can't have any. I 
believe in her husband, because I must. But nobody else ! 
You're not giving me your opinion. 



A MATTER OF DUTY. 2 1 

Mr. Carter {after a moment's reflection, cautiously'). — 
Haven't we left out one point of view? 

Lady Mickleham. — I've thought it over very carefully, 
both as it would affect me and as it would affect Archie. 

Mr. Carter. — Quite so. Now suppose you think how it 
would affect them. 

Lady Mickleham (a cup of tea half way to her lips) . — 
Who? 

Mr. Carter. — Why, the men. 

Lady Mickleham {putting down her cup) . — What a very 
curious idea! 

Mr. Carter. — Give it time to sink in. (He helps himself 
to another piece of toast and after a suitable tiine he leans 
thick.) Let me take my own case. Shouldn't I feel rather 
awkward ? 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, it's no good taking your case. 

Mr. Carter. — Why not mine as well as another? 

Lady Mickleham (laughing). — Because I told him about 
you long ago. 

Mr. Carter (blandly, with a gesture of remonstrance.) — 
Why not be guided — as to the others, I mean — by your 
husband's example? 

Lady Mickleham. — Archie's example? What's that? 

Mr. Carter. — I don't know ; but you do, I suppose. 

Lady Mickleham (sitting upright). — What do you mean, 
Mr. Carter? 

Mr. Carter. — Well, has he ever told you about Maggie 
Adeane ? 

Lady Mickleham. — I never heard of her. 

Mr. Carter. — Or Lilly Courtenay? 

Lady Mickleham. — That girl ! 

Mr. Carter. — Or Alice Layton? 

Lady Mickleham. — The red-haired Layton? 



22 A MATTER OF DUTY. 

Mr. Carter. — Or Florence Cunliffe? 

Lady Mickleham. — Who was she? 

Mr. Carter. — Or Millie Trehearne? 

Lady Mickleham. — She squints, Mr. Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — Or 

Lady Mickleham. — Stop, stop ! What do you mean? 
What should he tell me? 

Mr. Carter. — Oh, I see he hasn't. Nor, I suppose, 
about Sylvia Fenton, or that little Delancy. girl, or hand- 
some Miss — what was her name ? 

Lady Mickleham. — Hold your tongue — and tell me what 
you mean. 

Mr. Carter (gravely.) — Lady Mickleham, if your husband 
has not thought fit to mention these ladies — and others 
whom I could name — to you, how could I presume ? 

Lady Mickleham. — Do you mean to tell me that 
Archie ? 

Mr. Carter.— He'd only known you three years, you see. 

Lady Mickleham. — Then it was before ? 

Mr. Carter. — Some of them were before. 

Lady Mickleham (drawing a long breath). — Archie will 
be in soon. 

Mr. Carter (taking his hat). — It seems to me that what 
is sauce — that, I should say, husband and wife ought to 
stand on an equal footing in these matters. Since he has 
— no doubt for good reasons — not mentioned to you 

Lady Mickleham. — Alice Layton was a positive fright. 

Mr. Carter. — She came last, just before you, you know. 
However, as I was saying 

Lady Mickleham. — And that horrible Sylvia Fenton 



Mr. Carter. — Oh, he couldn't have known you long 
then. As I was saying, I should, if I were you, treat him as 
he has treated you. In my case, it seems to be too late. 



A MATTER OF DUTY. 23 

Lady Mickleham. — I'm sorry I told him that. 

Mr. Carter. — Oh, pray don't mind, it's of no conse- 
quence. As to the others 

Lady Mickleham. — I should never have thought it of 
Archie. 

Mr. Carter {with a smile), — One never knows. I 
don't suppose he thinks it of you. 

Lady Mickleham. — I won't tell him a single word. He 
may find out if he likes. Who was the last girl you men- 
tion? 

Mr. Carter. — Is it any use trying to remember all their 
names? No doubt he's forgotten them by now — just as 
you've forgotten the others. 

Lady Mickleham. — And the Dowager told me that he 
had never had an attachment before. 

Mr. Carter. — Oh, if the Dowager said that ! Of course, 
the Dowager would know ! (He starts away.) 

Lady Mickleham. — Don't be so silly, for goodness sake ! 
Are you going? 

Mr. Carter. — Certainly I am. It might annoy Archie 
to find me here when he wants to talk to you. 

Lady Mickleham. — Well, I want to talk to him. 

Mr. Carter. — Of course, you won't repeat what I've 

Lady Mickleham. — I shall find out for myself. 

Mr. Carter. — Good-by. I hope I've removed all your 
troubles ? 

Lady Mickleham. — Oh, yes, thank you. I know what to 
do now, Mr Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — Always send for me if you're in any 
trouble. I have some exp 

Lady Mickleham. — Good-by, Mr. Carter. 

Mr. Carter. — Good-by, Lady Mickleham. And remem- 
ber that Archie, like you 



24 A MATTER OF DUTY. 

Lady Mickleham. — Yes, yes; I know. Must you go? 

Mr. Carter. — I'm afraid I must. I've enjoyed oui 
talk so 

Lady Mickleham {with a slight start). — There's Archie's 
step. (He goes out.) 

CURTAIN. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 



Adapted from " Donna Diana," by Westland Marston. 



CHARACTERS. 

Don Diego, Duke of Barcelona. 

Don Caesar, son of a neighboring Duke. 

Don Luis, cousin to Don Cesar. 

Perin, a cotmtryman of Don C^sar, and secretary and con- 
fidant to Donna Diana. 

Donna Diana, daughter to Don Diego. 

Donna Laura, cousin to Donna Diana. 

A Gentleman, a Lady, and other Court Attendants, Musi- 
cians. 

Situation. — Don Caesar, Don Luis and others, cojne to the 
court of the Duke to win the hand of Donna Diana, 
for besides her remarkable beauty the successful suitor 
will gain the dukedom of Barcelona. To all she is 
cold and haughty, 7intil C^sar, at the instigation of his 
countryman Perin, assumes an attitude of utmost in- 
difference to her charms. She determines to subdue 
his proud spirit. At the mask in the eve?iing she 
manages to have Caesar for her partner, and all her 
arts are exercised to break through his cold exterior. 
Several times only the presence of Perin prevents 
Caesar's 7'eal passion from betrayifig him. 

25 



26 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

The following scenes show Diana's last effort to 
subdue Caesar through jealousy, and her final vain 
struggle to resist the power of her own love. 

There is but little furniture needed in the hall of the 
ducal palace whe?-e the action takes place. 

Scene I. 

Enter Caesar, looking back regretfully. Then enter Perin 
from other side, quietly. 

Cesar. — How hard is fortune. Changeful hearts like 
these 
Secure their prize. I, constant, lose my own. 

Perin {approaching). — Moody again, prince, and your 
wild bird snared ! 

C/esar.— She is indeed a wild bird. 

Perin. — True she sits 

And broods on that sweet egg she calls revenge ; 
But I'm mistaken, if love creep not forth, 
When the time comes for hatching. Still keep firm ; 
She yet has one resource — one stratagem — 
For which prepare yourself. 

Caesar.— What's that? 

Perin.— She'll try 

To make you jealous. Mind whate'er she feigns 
You credit not a jot. 

Cesar. — I'm on my guard. 

Perin. — 'Tis her last chance ; but see, she comes ! 
(They look away towards the approaching princess.) 

Cesar (enchanted). — The princess ! 

How airy is each movement. Like a goddess, 
She rather floats than steps. 

Perin. — Again these raptures ! 

They're dangerous. Retire till you subdue them. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 27 

No — no — I say ; you shan't give battle yet. (Perin, with 

some difficulty, pushes Don Ccesar off on one side.) 

Enter Donna Diana, in deep thought, stopping in the centre. 

Music is heard in the distance. 

Diana (gravely to Perin, who has withdrawn to the back 
of the stage). — What means this absurd ditty, 
" Laura ! Laura ! " 
Nothing but " Laura 1 " What insipid folly ! 

Perin. — But still it spreads. The men are wild with 
love. 
And (you've observed it, madam) love's poor dupes 
Take instantly to music. Sing they must ; 
And, as you will not let them sing — Diana, 
They choose some meaner name. 'Tis sad, but natural. 
(Afore music is heard.) 
Diana. — Again ! (Scornfully, as if vexed to be neglected.) 

How grand ! How overpowering ! Is it not ? 
Perin. — Yet folly has its use. A world all wisdom 
Might become tiresome. 

Diana (thoughtfully) . — Perhaps you're right, 
And, had Don Caesar mingled in this trifling, 
I scarce had blamed him. Not that I desire it. 
Thank heaven ! I'm not assailed with songs from him. 
Perin (aside) .—Jay, joy ! The bird is caught. 
(Aloud.) As for Don Caesar, 
Remember you released him from his duties. 
Diana. — I bade him go. 

Perin. — And so he went, of course. 

Diana. — Why say "of course? " Had he possessed one 
spark 
Of spirit he had stayed. 

Perin. — And disobeyed you? 



28 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

Diana. — There are some virtues higher than obedience. 

Perin (aside) . — Oh, my rare system ! 

Diana. — Had he pressed his right 

To attend on me, perhaps I should have yielded. 

Perin. — " Perhaps ! " ay, there's the point. This grave, 
cold prince 
Takes words in their strict sense. If you say, go, 
He deems not you mean stay. He sadly lacks 
Perception, and the art of reading women. (Diana has 

an absent and melancholy look.) 
But see, the princes with their ladies come ; 
All look absurdly happy. 

Diana (looking toward them). — And Don Caesar 
Comes with them. 

Perin. — But their childish ecstasies 

Are lost on him, your highness ; be it ours 
With calm, superior eyes to note afar 
The lot of frail humanity. ( They withdraw to side.) 

Enter Luis and Laura, another gentleman and lady 9 fol- 
lowed by Caesar. 

Luis (to Laura). — Fortune has smiled on me to-day; 
would Laura 
Smile too, I'd ask no further boon of fortune. 

Laura. — The custom of the mask makes you gallant. 
(They retire a few steps , while he speaks urgently to 
her.) 
Gentleman (to lady). — Do not think 
The usage of this night extorts my homage : 
Your loveliness compels it. 

Lady. — I would fain 

Believe you ; but you natter. These love-fires 
Shoot up too suddenly. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 29 

Gentleman. — Be you less lovely, 

And I shall be less ardent. {He kisses her hand, then eon- 
verses apart) 
Diana {aside to Per in). — They've no words, 
It seems, to waste on me. 

Perin {to Diana). — I could forgive 
All but Don Caesar. Look now how he stands, — 
Embodied apathy ! Oh, I could box 
His ears with pleasure. {Turns aside to laugh.) 

Luis. — What say you — shall we once more to the 

ball? 
Gentleman. — Agreed \ let us enjoy even to the last, 
These love-winged hours. ( The gentlemen lead their ladies 
away, Ccesar stands in abstraction.) 
Diana {with affected scorn, to Perin). — They're swimming 

in a very sea of bliss ! 
Perin. — Young blood, young blood ! They're not philo- 
sophers 
Like you and me, your highness. {C&sar seems to awaken 
from his reverie, turns to follow the others. He 
p}-etends to see Diana for the first time, boivs re spec t- 
fully and continues out.) 
Diana {aside). — What, Don Caesar 

Goes too ! he sees me and he goes ! I'll try 
My last and keenest weapon — jealousy. 
{Aloud.) Call him back, Perin. 

Perin. — Prince ! prince ! 

C^sar {gravely). — Did you call? 

Perin. — I did, my lord. 

Cesar. — Some other time. At present 

I'm in the train of love. 

Diana {quickly). — You love? 
C^SAR. — My freedom. 



30 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

Diana. — You mean, then, that you do not love "at alL 
Freedom's a mere ideal ; but love needs 
An outward object. 

Cesar. — Princess, pardon me, 

As you ne'er loved, you can't tell what love needs. 
I really can't permit you an opinion 
Upon that point. (Perin rubs his hands with delight?) 

Diana (significantly} . — I may be more entitled 
To give one than you think. 

Oesar (starting involuntarily), — You love, then? 

Diana (aside), — Ha? 

He started ! (Aloud.) It were rash to say I love; 
But I confess my former views of love 
Are somewhat shaken. 

Perin (aside). — ■ Somewhat. 

Caesar (with forced composure) . — Will you deign 
To tell me why? 

Diana (assuming earnest frankness). — Yes, prince, 'tis 
only just, 
As you have shared those views. Then thus I feel : 
'Twere selfish to oppose my private will 
Against a nation's hope, a father's prayers. 
To these I therefore yield ; and, though my heart 
As yet is free, since I must take a husband, 
I've cast my eyes upon your cousin Luis, 
Prince of B£arne. 

Perin (aside to Diana). — That hit was fatal. (Aside to 
Ccesar.) Nonsense! (Ccesar looks oppressed.) 

Diana. — 'Tis my resolution 
Therefore to choose him. Could I choose more fitly? 
(A pause.) Speak ! love deludes not you. What's your 

opinion ? 
You do not answer. Is my choice unwise ? 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 3 I 

{Aside, exultingly.) He's pale and speechless. Ves, at 
last, at last ! 
Perin {apart to Cczsar). — Shame, prince; is this your 

firmness ? 
Diana. — \\ T hy, Don Caesar, 

You seem astonished. 

Caesar {recovering himself). — Seem? I am astonished. 
Diana. — At what? 

Oesar {fully self-possessed). — That there should be two 
beings so alike 
As you and I ; not only do we think 
And feel as one, but it appears our thoughts 
And feelings change together. We are twins, 
If not by birth, by nature. Tell me, princess, 
How long is't since you took this resolution? 
Diana {confused). — Only to-night. 
Cesar {eagerly). — The hour? 
Diana {surprised). — The hour ! {Pe?i?i, also surprised, 

listens eagerly.) 
Cesar. — Was it not 

Upon the stroke of nine ? For then precisely 
I took the very self- same resolution 
And for the self-same cause. {Looking at her insinuatingly.) 

To gratify 
My father and the state I choose a bride. 

Diana {aside, pleased and softened). — He means myself. 
Why else the agitation 
He lately showed ? I feel a strange relenting. 
{Aloud.) Prince, as I freely gave my confidence, 
I look for yours. Who is the happy fair? 

Oesar {tenderly). — I fear to tell; but thus far I may 
venture : 
She's of near kin to Barcelona's duke. 



32 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

Diana (aside, delighted}. — That's to my father ! 
{Aloud.) Smiles she on your suit? 

Oesar. — She might, would you befriend it. {Perin 

makes a gesture of annoyance.) 
Diana (aside, with suppressed exultation). — Just so. 
{Aloud.)— Really? 
Who can it be? 

Oesar. — You have not far to seek. 

Diana {very graciously) . — Speak boldly, prince ; her 

name? 
Oesar. — Her name is Laura. 
Diana {confused) . — What ! who ? 
Cesar. — Your highness' cousin, Donna Laura. 
Perin (aside). — Jove, what a move ! It takes away one's 

breath. (Diana is struck dumb.) 
Oesar. — I feared Don Luis had secured my prize ; 
But, princess, you by choosing him have rid me 
Of this great danger. Thanks, a thousand thanks ! 
Well, is my choice approved? {A pause.) You do not 

answer, 
What ails your highness? 

Diana. — Ails me ? Ails me ! Nothing. 

Oesar (pretending anxiety). — You're pale ! you tremble ; 

something's wrong. 
Diana. — Once more, 

I tell you nothing; — nothing but amazement 
That you should see a goddess in a woman 

So commonplace, so tame, so plain {Checks herself.) 

Oesar. — As Laura? 

Diana {aside). — Oh, what a wretch am I thus to miscall 
My gentle cousin. {Aloud.) Prince, you've shown discern- 
ment, 
Laura has every virtue. 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. $$ 

Cesar. — So I think. 
She's modest, sweet, accomplished, winning, graceful 

Diana (interrupting). — But very commonplace. 

Oesar. — Oh, there I differ 

Diana {impatiently breaking off the talk). — 'Tis like you 
may be right. 'Tis an affair 
Of taste : you follow yours ; I mine. (She turns away to 
hide her agitation.) 

CAESAR (to Peri?i). — That sounds 
Decisive. 

Perin (to Ccesar). — To it again, 
The fort is silenced. 

Cesar. — Princess, with your leave, 

I now withdraw. (He bows as if to go.) 

Diana (turning quickly). — To your sweet Laura? 

C/ESAR. — Yes. (He looks back, pretends to see Laura 
passing, and feigns 1'apture.) 
See where she passes, O enchanting vision ! 
Where all contrasting graces harmonize, 
Meekness with dignity. 

Diana (interrupting ironically). — Go on ! go on ! 
You have not done. This is the prelude only, 
The first faint note of praise before the chorus. 
What is there so bewitching in your idol? 

Caesar. — In Laura, do you ask? 

Diana (aside). — 'Tis base in me 

To wrong her thus. (She calms herself by a strong effort?) 
Prince, Laura is my friend — dear as a sister, 
Though your gross adulation roused my anger, 
I here retract each syllable I spoke 
In her dispraise. You're right. Go — go to Laura. 

Cesar. — I fly ; her sanction gained, I'll then entreat 
Your father's to confirm it. Finally, 



34 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

To crown this night's rejoicing, I'll tell Luis 
What happiness your highness destines for him. (He bows 
gravely and goes out. Diana stands motionless.) 

Perin (aside, looking after Ccesar). — Played to perfec- 
tion ! 

Diana. — The abyss of shame 
Is fathomed. He can love, but loves another. (She sinks 

into a chair. Perin approaches^) 
The thought is torture. (Perin sighs.) Perin ! 

Perin (sympathizingly). — Yes, your highness. 

Diana (without looking up) . — Comes he not back ? 

Perin. — Back ! After offering 

So gross an insult to you ! 

Diana. — Perin, peace ! 

I'm not myself ; I'm wretched ! 

Perin. — Noble lady, 

Be calm. Did any see you thus but Perin 
He might almost conclude your highness felt — (He hesi- 
tates.) 

Diana. — Felt what? 

Perin. — If I must speak, the pangs of love. 

Diana (trembling) . — The pangs of love ! 

Perin. — Be calm, I beg. Of course 

It can't be love you feel ; but then, what is it? 

Diana. — I know not. All's distraction. Now I melt 
In grief, now burn with hatred. I hate Laura ; 
I hate Don Caesar. Most of all I hate 
Myself for hating them. 

Perin. — Worse than I thought ! 

This is not love alone : 'tis jealousy ! 

Diana (starting up, enraged). — Jealousy, minion ! To my 
face ! I jealous? 

Perin (soothingly). — Your highness ! 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 35 

Diana {with passionate exciteme?it). — Quit my presence. 
Not a word. 
You tamper with your life. (Perin withdraws in pre- 
tended alarm. Diana, who has lost all self-control, 
stands still a mo??ient> then covers her face with her 
hands and harries off the stage.} 
Perin. — Poor flutterer ! 

Vain are thy struggles ; thou art in the net. (He goes out.) 

Scene II. 

Enter Diana, wrapped in thought. 

Diana. — Bound to Don Luis ! I'll redeem my pledge. 
Caesar, if thou hast guessed my love, this hour 
Shall show thee I subdued it. With unfaltering step 
I'll walk to doom, a princess, though a victim. (She retires 
to the back, and sits apart with an air of lofty ab- 
straction^) 

Enter Oesar and Perin. They advance to the front. 

Cesar. — Can I believe you, Perin? 

Perin (seeing Diana and speaking cautiously apart.) 
— Hush ; she's here. 
Yes, prince, she loves you fondly, desperately; 
She has confessed it. 

Cesar. — Let me then 

Perin. — Not yet. 

A word might ruin all. The Duke himself 
Is privy to our plot, and comes to crown it. (A flourish 
of trumpets announces the approach of the Duke.) 

Enter Duke, Luis, Laura, and other gentlemen and ladies 
of the Court. 

Duke (glancing at Diana). — No tidings, princes, more 
than these could bless 



36 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

A father's ear. My people and myself 

May well rejoice. Daughter, your choice is known ; 

But it befits this high solemnity 

That you in form record it. Bid your bridegroom 

Now lead you forth. 

Diana {resolutely). — Don Luis. 

Luis {aside, confounded) . — How ! The jest 
Grows serious. She can't mean it. 

Cesar {alarmed, to Perm). — What's this, Perin? 

Laura {agitated, to Perin) . — Perin ! ( Others also show 
amazement.) 

Diana. — I wait, Don Luis. 

Luis {aside) . — Heavens ! I'm lost. {He advances to 
Diana.) 

Perin {to Ccesar and Laura). — I tremble ; but the 
game's not over. 

Diana {advancing to the Duke, hand in hand with Luis). 
— Father, 
Pronounce the form. 

Duke {surprised) . — Diana. 

Perin {to Ccesar). — Catch her eye, prince ! 

Quick, quick ! ( Ccesar approaches Diana.) 

Diana {to Duke). — Pronounce the form. 

Duke. — Repeat it 

As I proceed, thus — You, Diana, daughter 
Of Don Diego. 

Diana {with a low, constrained tone). — /, Diana, 
daughter 
Of Don Diego. 

Duke. — Duke of Barcelona, 
And heiress to the Duchy. 

Diana. — Duke of Barcelo7ia, 

And heiress — {She catches Ccesar 1 s eye and stops.) 



PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 37 

Duke. — To the Duchy. You forget. 

Diana. — Ay. To the Duchy. 

Duke. — Here espouse Don Luis 

Diana {looking fixedly at Luis). — Here — here — espouse — 

espouse (She stops short.) 

Duke. — How now, you falter. 

Diana (aside). — My doom at hand, no rescue, no es- 
cape. (She turns suddenly and observes Luis.) 
Look, look, his head is bowed ! He stands like marble. 
Is this a bridegroom's aspect? Hear me, Luis, 
If without love you claim me, you commit 
A wrong past pardon. If you would retract, 
And choose some dearer mate, declare it — answer. 
Luis. — I'm bound to you by honor. 
Diana. — Ay, by honor, 

But not by love. You do not say by love. (A pause.) 
You cannot say it. Then I dissolve the bond. (She quits 
his side.) 
Luis. — Princess, it is your pleasure, I submit. (He 

bows.) 
Duke. — Don Luis, is this true? Your choice falls else- 
where? (Short pause.) 
C/esar. — Duke, if I err not, yes. (He leads Laura to 

Luis and joins their hands.) 
Diana (starting). — How? Laura! 

Duke (feigning surprise) . — Laura ! ( To Cczsar.} Prince, 
methought yourself 
Were plighted to my niece. 

Caesar. — Sir, in the mask 

Just ended, I have worn your daughter's colors. 
Duke. — But the mask over, you are free. 
Cesar. — Great duke, 
I'm not impatient for my freedom. 



38 PRIDE AGAINST PRIDE. 

Diana (who has listened attentively, starting) . — Ah ! 
Duke. — How must I take you? Do you love my 

daughter ? 
Caesar (gazing tenderly at her) . — I dare not say what 

might so much offend her. 
Diana (leaving the rest and speaki?ig aside). — Am I so 
blest? 

Duke (to Ccesar). — You trifle, prince. Speak, some 

one 

Diana (gravely, with downcast eyes). — The task be mine. 
Down, stubborn heart ! — Subdued 
And chastened to repentance, own thy sin, 
Cast off thy vain disguise. If e'er I wed 
I'll call him lord who vanquished pride by pride. 
Cesar (approaching her eagerl}'). — And who is he? 
Diana (vehemently. She raises her hand and he seizes it 
passionately). — Tyrant, why ask ! Thyself. (She 
bursts into tears?) 
Cesar (embracing her). — Tyrant ! Ah, no. 
I have but conquered, sweet, the privilege 
To be your slave for ever. 

Perin (drawing a long breatJi). — Safe in port ! 
I thought we should have foundered. 

CURTAIN. 



TOM AND ROXY. 



Adapted from Mark Twain ; s " Pudd'nhead Wilson." 



CHARACTERS. 



Tom, a very white negro, who has been well-educated and 
talks like a pure white, 

Roxy, a negro as white as a Caucasian, mother of Tom, 
but using negro dialect. 

Situation. — Roxy substituted her baby for a dead white 
baby and thereby got Tom reared as age7itleman. But 
his origi?i betrayed itself ; he became a spendthrift, 
gambler and drunkard. For several years they have 
not met and each suspects the other is acquainted with 
his secrets. Roxy has lost all and seeks an allowa?ice. 
The scene opens in an ordinary chamber with a sofa 
in it. Tom is on the sofa with his feet in the air — to 
show his superiority to a negro. 

Scene I. 

Tom is on the sofa. Enter Roxy. 

Roxy. — My Ian', how you is growed, honey ! 'Clah to 
goodness, I wouldn't a-knowed you, Marse Tom ! 'deed I 
wouldn't ! Look at me good ; does you 'member old 
Roxy? — does you know you' old nigger mammy, honey? 
Well, now, I kin lay down en die in peace 'ca'se I'se 
seed 

Tom. — Cut it short — cut it short ! What is it you want? 

Roxy. — You heah dat? Jes de same old Marse Tom, 

39 



40 TOM AND ROXY. 

a? ays so gay and funnhV wid de old mammy. I 'uz jes as 
shore 

Tom. — Cut it short, I tell you, and get along ! What do 
you want? 

Roxy {after a moment of hesitation and despair). — Oh, 
Marse Tom, de po' ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese 
days ; en she's kinder crippled in de arms en can't work, 
en if you could gimme a dollah — on'y jes one little dol 

Tom (Jumping to his feet) . — A dollar ! — give you a dollar ! 
I've a notion to strangle you ! Is that your errand here ? 
Clear out ! and be quick about it ! 

Roxy {going slowly backward) . — Marse Tom, I nussed 
you when you was a little baby, en I raised you all by myself 
tell you was 'most a young man ; en now you is young en 
rich, en I is po' en gitt'n ole, en I come heah b' Kevin' dat 
you would he'p de old mammy 'long down de little road 
dat's lef 'twix' her en de grave, en 

Tom {not so harshly). — I am not in a situation to help you 
and I'm not going to do it. 

Roxy {humbly). — Ain't you ever gwine to help me, 
Marse Tom? 

Tom. — No ! Now go away and don't bother me any more. 

Roxy {raising her head slowly and becoming erect) . — You 
has said de word. You has had yo' chance, en you has 
trompled it under yo' foot. When you git another one, 
you'll git down on yo' knees en beg for it ! 

Tom {with bluster) . — You'll give me a chance — you 7 
Perhaps I'd better get down on my knees now ! But in 
case I don't — just for argument's sake — what's going to 
happen, pray? 

Roxy. — Dis is what is gwine to happen. I's gwine as 
straight to yo' uncle as I kin walk, en tell him every las' 
thing I knows 'bout you. 

Tom {scared — then with sickly smile) . — Well, well, Roxy 



TOM AND ROXY. 4 I 

dear, old friends like you and me mustn't quarrel. Here's 
your dollar — now tell me what you know. {Holding out a 
dollar bill.) 

Roxy. — What does I know? I'll tell you what I knows. 
I knows enough to bu'st dat will to flinders — en more, 
mind you, more ? 

Tom (aghast), — More? What do you call more ? Where's 
there any room for more? 

Roxy {with a mocking laugh). — Yes! — oh, I reckon! 
Co'se you'd like to know — wid yo' po' little ole rag dollah. 
What you reckon I's gwine to tell you for? — you ain't got 
no money. I's gwine to tell yo' uncle — en I'll do it dis 
minute, too — he'll gimme five doilahs for de news, en 
mighty glad, too. (She starts away.) 

Tom {seizing her skirts) . — Wait ! Wait ! 

Roxy (turning). — Look-a-heah, what 'uz it I tole you? 

Tom. — You — you — I don't remember anything. — What 
was it you told me ? 

Roxy. — I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance 
you'd git down on yo' knees en beg for it. 

Tom (stupefied). — Oh, Roxy, you wouldn't require your 
young master to do such a horrible thing. You can't mean it. 

Roxy. — I'll let you know mighty quick whether I mean 
it or not ! You call me names when I comes here po' en 
ornery en 'umble, to praise you for bein growed up so fine 
en handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend 
you en watch you when you 'uz sick en hadn't no mother 
but me in de whole worl', en beg you to give de po' ole 
nigger a dollah for to git her som'n' to eat, en you call me 
names — names. Yassir, I give you jes one chance mo', 
and dat's now, en it las' on'y a half a second — you hear? 

Tom (on his knees). — You see I'm begging, and it's 
honest begging, too ! Now tell me, Roxy, tell me. 



42 TOM AND ROXY. 

Roxy {after a moment of deep satisfaction). — Fine, nice 
young white gen'l'man kneelin' down to a nigger-wench ! 
I's wanted to see dat jes once befo' I's called. Now, 
Gabr'el, blow de hawn, I's ready. . . Git up ! 

Tom {rising). — Now, Roxy, don't punish me any more. 
I deserved what I've got, but be good and let me off with 
that. Don't go to uncle. Tell me — I'll give you the five 
dollars. 

Roxy. — Yes, I bet you will ; en you won't stop dah, 
nuther. But I ain't gwine to tell you heah — • 

Tom. — Good gracious, no ! 

Roxy. — Is you 'feared o' de ha'nted house ? 

Tom. — N — no. 

Roxy. — Well, den, you come to de ha'nted house 'bout 
ten or 'leven to-night, en climb up de ladder, 'ca'se de 
sta'r-steps is broke down, en you'll find me. I's a-roostin' 
in de ha'nted house 'ca'se I can't 'ford to roos' nowhers' 
else. {Starts towards the door, but stops.) Gimme de 
dollah bill. {Sc?-utinizes it.) H'm — like enough de bank's 
bu'sted. {She goes out.) 

Tom {opens the door for her, then flings himself on the 
sofa, sways back and forth and moans). — I've knelt to a 
nigger-wench ! I thought I had struck the deepest depths 
of degradation before, but oh, dear, it was nothing to this 

Well, there is one consolation, such as it is — I've 

struck bottom this time ; nothing lower. 

Scene II. 

A room in the second story of a haunted house. Straw is 
in one corner ; a little cheap clothing hangs up at one 
side ; soap and candle boxes serve as seats. A lantern 
lights the room. Enter Roxy and then Tom. 



TOM AND ROXY. 43 

Roxy. — Now den, I'll tell you straight off, en I'll begin 
to k'leck de money later on ; I ain't in no hurry. What 
does you reckon I's going to tell you ? 

Tom. — Well, you — you — oh, Roxy, don't make it too 
hard for me ! Come right out and tell me you've found out 
somehow what a shape I'm in on account of dissipation 
and foolishness, 

Roxy. — Disposition en foolishness ! No, sir, dat ain't it. 
Dat jist ain't nothin' at all, 'longside o' what / knows, 

Tom. — Why, Roxy, what do you mean? 

Roxy {rising). — I mean dis — en it's de Lord's truth, 
you ain't no more kin to ole Marse Driscoll den I is ! — 
dat s what I mean ! 

Tom.— What ! 

Roxy. — Yassir, en dat ain't all ! you's a nigger! — bawn 
a nigger en a slave / — en you's a nigger en a slave dis 
minute ; en if I opens my mouf ole Marse Driscoll '11 sell 
you down de river befo' you is two days older den what 
you is now ! 

Tom. — It's a thundering lie, you miserable old blather- 
skite ! 

Roxy. — It ain't no lie nuther. It's jes de truth, en 
nothin' but de truth, so he'p me. Yassir — you's my son 

Tom. — You devil ! 

Roxy. — En dat po' boy dat you's be'n a-kickin' en a- 
cuffin' to-day is Percy Driscoll's son en yo' marster 

Tom. — You beast ! 

Roxy. — En his name's Tom Driscoll, en yo' name's Valet 
de Chambers, en you ain't got no fambly name, beca'se 
niggers don't have em ! {Tom springs up and seizes a 
billet of wood?) Set down, you pup ! Does you think you 
kin skyer me ? It ain't in you, nor de likes of you. I reckon 
you'd shoot me in de back, maybe if you got a chance, for 



44 TOM AND ROXY. 

dat's jist yo' style — / knows you, throo en throo — but I 
don't mind gitt'n killed, because all dis is down in writm* 
en it's in safe hands, too, en de man dat's got it knows 
whah to look for de right man when I gits killed. Oh, 
bless yo' soul, if you puts yo' mother for as big a fool as 
you is, you's pow'ful mistaken, I kin tell you ! Now den, 
you set still en behave yo'self; en don't you git up ag' in 
till I tell you ! 

Tom {nervously) . — The whole thing is moonshine ; now 
then go ahead, and do your worst ; I'm done with you. (Roxy 
silently takes the lantern and starts towards the door?) 
Come back, come back ! I didn't mean it, Roxy ; I take 
it all back, and I'll never say it again ! Please come back, 
Roxy ! 

Roxy (gravely). — Dat's one thing you's got to stop, 
Valet de Chambers. You can't call me Roxy, same as if 
you was my equal, children don't speak to dey mammies 
like dat. You'll call me ma or mammy, dat's what you'll 
call me — least ways when dey ain't nobody aroun'. Say it I 

Tom (with a struggle). — Mammy ! 

Roxy. — Dat's all right. Don't you ever forget it ag'in, 
if you knows what's good for you. Now den, you has said 
you wouldn't ever call it lies en moonshine ag'in. I'll 
tell you dis for a warnin' : if you ever does say it ag'in, it's 
de las' time you'll ever say it to me ; I'll tramp as straight 
to de judge as I kin walk, en tell him who you is, en prove 
it. Does you b'lieve me when I says dat? 

Tom (with a groan). — Oh, I more than believe it; I 
know it. 

Roxy (after sitting down). — Now den, Chambers, we's 
gwine to talk business, en dey ain't gwine to be no' mo' fool- 
ishness. In de fust place, you gits fifty dollahs a month ; 
you's gwine to han' over half of it to yo' ma. Plank it out ! 



TOM AND ROXY. 45 

Tom. — There's all I have in the world, {hands her six 
dollars.} But I promise to start fair on next month's pen- 
sion. 

Roxy. — Chambers, how much is you in debt? 

Tom {with a shudder). — Nearly three hundred dollars. 

Roxy. — How is you gwine to pay it? 

Tom {groaning). — Oh, I don't know; don't ask me such 
awful questions. 

Roxy. — Yes, I aint gwine to be put off. I'm gwine to 
know. 

Tom. — Well — eh — I've been about in disguise, and I've 
gathered small valuables from several houses \ in fact, two 
weeks ago I made a good raid when folks thought I was in 
St. Louis. Still I doubt if I've sent away enough stuff to 
realize the amount, and the town is too excited to make 
another venture just yet. 

Roxy. — Dat's just right en I'se gwine to help you. 

Tom. — If you'd only leave the town, I should feel better 
and safer, because 

Roxy. — I aint troubled 'bout whah I'm livin' so' sn I git 
my money reg'lar. 

Tom {with a sigh of relief). — Oh! You'll get it all 
right. 

Roxy. — I don't hate you so much now, but I've hated 
you a many a year — and anybody would. Didn't I change 
you off, en give you a goodfambly en a good name en made 
you a white genTman en rich, wid store clothes on — en 
what did I git for it? You despised me all de time, en was 
al'ays sayin' mean hard things to me befo' folks, en wouldn't 
ever let me forgit I's a nigger — en — en — {She falls to sob- 
bing and breaks down.) 

Tom. — But you know I didn't know you were my mother ; 
and besides 



46 TOM AND ROXY. 

Roxy. — Well, nemmine 'bout dat, now; let it go. Ts 
gwine to fo'igt it. {She rises and Tom also rises and hur- 
ries awav with some show of respect} En don't ever make 
me remember it ag'in or you'll be sorry, / tell you. 

CURTAIN. 



A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 



Adapted from " David Copperfield," by Dickens. 



CHARACTERS. 

Dora, a beautiful blo?ide young lady, with curly hair. 
Miss Julia Mills, a dark-complexioned young lady, some- 
what older than Dora. 
David, a young man very much in love with Dora. 
Jip, a lap-dog belonging to Dora. 

Situation. — David is but recently engaged to Dora, who 
stays with a friend, Julia Mills {just disappointed in 
love). David tries to explai?i to Dora his sudden loss 
of fortune with the following disastrous result. 

David is waiting when Dora appears with Jip in her arms. 
Dora drops Jip, greets her lover. 

David. — My pretty little Dora is well and happy? 

Dora. — Oh, yes, yes ! 

David. — Dora, dear, could you love a beggar? 

Dora (stares at him a moment and then sits and pouts). — 
How can you ask me anything so foolish ? Love a beggar ? 

David. — Dora, my own dearest, 1 am a beggar ! 

Dora (slapping his hand). — How can you be such a 
silly thing as to sit there, telling such stories? I'll make 
Jip bite you ! 

47 



48 A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 

David. — Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David ! 

Dora. — I declare I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so 
ridiculous. (Looks at David and sees his face so serious 
that she begins to cry.) 

David (falling on his knees before her and caressing her) . 
— Don't, Dora, don't ! You'll break my heart. 

Dora. — Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Oh, I am so frightened ! 

David. — I didn't mean to frighten you, Dora. 

Dora. — Where is Julia? Take me to Julia Mills. 

David. — Don't take on so, Dora. Won't you look at 
me? 

Dora. — Julia ! Julia ! (To David,) Go away ! 

David. — Give me just one glance. (She looks at him 
reluctantly.) You know I love you, oh, so dearly, dearest, 
but I feel it right to release you from our engagement, now, 
because I am poor. Oh, I could never bear to lose you. 
I have no fear of poverty, if you have none, dearest, for 
your dear face nerves my arm and inspires my heart. Oh, 
I am working now with a courage none but lovers know ; 
but I have begun to be practical and to look into the future. 
You know a crust well-earned is sweeter far than a feast 
inherited. (Dora has gradually become interested and is 
clinging to his hand.) Is your heart mine still, dear Dora? 

Dora. — Oh, yes ! Oh, yes, it's all yours. Oh, don't be 
dreadful ! 

David. — I, dreadful? To Dora? 

Dora (drawing closer). — Don't talk about being poor, 
and working hard ! Oh, don't, don't ! 

David. — My dearest love, the crust well-earned 

Dora. — Oh, yes; but I don't want to hear any more 
about crusts! And Jip must have a mutton-chop every 
day at twelve, or he'll die ! 

David. — Certainly, dearest, Jip shall have his mutton- 



A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 49 

chop just as regularly as usual, but let me draw a picture 
of our frugal home made independent by my labor. My 
aunt shall have her room upstairs. — I am not dreadful now, 
Dora? 

Dora. — Oh, no, no ! But I hope your aunt will keep in 
her own room a good deal ! And I hope she's not a scold- 
ing old thing ! 

David (after a pause in which he seems to bethinking 
hard), — My own? May I mention something? 

Dora (coaxingly). — Oh, please, don't be practical. — Be- 
cause it frightens me so ! 

David. — Sweetheart, there is nothing to alarm you in 
all this. I want you to think of it quite differently. I 
want to make it nerve you, and inspire you, Dora. 

Dora. — Oh, but that's sc shocking ! 

David. — My love, no. Perseverance and strength of 
character will enable us to bear much worse things. 

Dora {shaking her curls') . — But I haven't got any strength 
at all. Have I, Jip ? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agreeable ! 
(She holds the dog up for both to kiss on each side of the 
centre of the nose and both laugh gayly.) 

David (after another pause). — But Dora, my beloved, I 
was going to mention something. 

Dora (holding up her hands in childlike prayer). — Oh, 
don't be dreadful any more ! 

David. — Indeed, 1 am not going to be, my darling ! 
But, Dora, my love, if you will sometimes think — not 
despondingly, you know ; far from that ! — but if you will 
sometimes think — just to encourage yourself — that you are 
engaged to a poor man 

Dora. — Don't, don't ! Pray, don't ! It's so very dread- 
ful ! 

David. — My soul, not at all ! If you will sometimes 
4 



50 A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 

think of that, and look about now and then at your papa's 
housekeeping, and endeavor to acquire a little habit — of 
accounts, for instance 

Dora.— Oh ! (A sob.) Oh ! 

David. — It would be so useful to us afterwards. And if 
you would promise to read a little — a little cookery-book 
that I would send you, it would be so excellent for both of 
us. For our path in life, my Dora, (eloquently) is stormy 
and rugged now, and it rests with us to smooth it. We 
must fight our way onward. We must be brave. There 
are obstacles to be met, and we must meet and crush 
them 

Dora [shrieks). — Oh ! You frighten me so ! Julia ! 
Julia Mills ! Where are you? (David approaches.) Go 
away, please. (He walks distractedly about the room and 
she faints.) 

David (as she falls back on the sofa). — Oh ! I have 
killed her this time. (Sprinkles water on her face, then 
falls on his knees and plucks his hair.) Remorseless brute ! 
Ruthless beast ! — Forgive me, forgive me ! Oh, but look 
up at me ! ( Goes to workbox for smelling-bottle but gets 
ivory needle-case instead and drops needles all over Dora. 
He shakes his fists at the barking dog and appears frantic.) 

Enter Miss Mills. 

Miss Mills (assists Dora) . — Who has done this ? 

David.—/, Miss Mills ! / have done it ! Behold the 
destroyer ! 

Miss Mills. — Is this a quarrel? 

Dora (revives; embraces Miss Mills). — Oh! he is a 
poor laborer ! — (Seizes David's hand). You must let me 
give you all my money to keep, will you? — Oh ! Julia. 
(Sobs.) 



A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 5 I 

Miss Mills. — There, dear, every true man is a laborer. 
Run upstairs and dry your eyes. Don't be frightened at 
anything he has said. Tea will be ready presently. {Dora 
goes out) 

David {who has been walking about.) — Miss Mills, I 
was trying to explain to Dora the sudden flight of my for- 
tune, that I am now a poor man and must toil for my daily 
bread. 

Miss Mills. — The Cottage of Content is better than the 
Palace of Cold Splendor. Where love is, all is. 

David. — How true it is ! Who should know it better 
than I, who love Dora with a love that never mortal has ex- 
perienced yet. 

Miss Mills (with despondency). — It is well indeed for 
some hearts if this is so. 

David. — Oh, I beg to say that I referred only to mortals 
of the masculine gender. Miss Mills, I was anxious to 
have Dora observe the housekeeping, the accounts, and 
study a cook-book. Has my suggestion to her any prac- 
tical merit? 

Miss Mills. — I will be plain with you. Mental suffering 
and trial supply, in some natures, the place of years, and 
I will be as plain with you as if I were a Lady Abbess. — 
No. The suggestion is not appropriate to our Dora. Our 
dearest Dora is a favorite child of nature. She is a thing 
of light and airiness and joy. I am free to confess that if 

it could be done, it might be well, but {shakes her 

head.) 

David. — Then, Miss Mills, for Dora's sake, if you have 
the opportunity to lure her attention to such preparations 
for an earnest life, will you avail yourself of it? 

Miss Mills.— Oh, yes, gladly. 

David. — Alight I ask you, too, to take charge of the 



52 A DISASTROUS ANNOUNCEMENT. 

cook-book? And if you could insinuate it upon Dora's 
acceptance without frightening her you would be doing me 
a crowning service. 

Miss Mills. — I accept that trust, too ; but I am not over 
sanguine. {Dora now appears at the side and comes over 
to David.) Let us go out to tea. ( They go out.) 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 



Adapted from " Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dragoon," by Charles Lever. 



CHARACTERS. 

Sir George Dash wood, a general in the British army, an 
elderly man, tall and commanding. 

Fred. Power, captain of Dragoons, a younger man, bold 
and free, in uniform. 

Charles O'Malley, a handsome young man. 

Frank Webber, college chum ^/"O'Malley, a great trickster, 
impersonating Miss Judith Macan. 

Miss Lucy Dashwood, a beautiful young lady, daughter to 
Sir George. 

An Old Nobleman, a Young Officer, a Servant, and Guests. 

Situation. — Sir George Dashwood and his daughter give a 
ball, to which O'Malley is invited. Although Frank 
Webber, O'Malley's chum, and a great pi'actical 
joker, has no invitation and scarcely has a speaking 
acquaintance with the Dashwoods ; he lays a wager of 
two ponies with Power that he will be p?-ese?it and kiss 
Miss Lucy. 

Sir George is fearless in war, but at home he lives 
in dread of his deceased wife's sister, Miss Judith 
Macan, whom he has not seen. She lives far in the 
count?y. 

S3 



54 MISS JUDITH MACAN. 

The following dialogue is the scene at the ball in 
which Webber impersonates Miss Macan, and wins 
his bet. The scenes occur in the drawing-room of Syr 
George, in Dublin. A sofa is on one side. There 
are but few pieces of furniture in the room. 

Miss Judith Macan must be dressed in outlandish 
costume ; she talks loudly », with a country accent. 

O'Malley has just finished a quadrille with Miss 
Lucy. 

Scene I. 

Enter Miss Lucy and O'Malley, approaching the sofa on 
the opposite side of the platform, when Sir George 
enters hurriedly in g7-eat excitement. 

Lucy. — Dear papa, has anything occurred? Pray, what 
is it? 

Sir George {with a faint smile) . — Nothing very serious, 
my dear, that I should alarm you in this way ; but certainly 
a more disagreeable mischance could scarcely occur. 

Lucy. — Do tell me ; what can it be ? 

Sir George. — Read this. {He presents a dirty-looking 
note.) 

Lucy {she glances at the note rapidly, after unfolding it, 
and then bursts into laughter). — Why, really, papa, I do 
not see why this should put you out much after all. Aunt 
may be somewhat of a character, as her note evinces, but 
after a few days 

Sir George. — Nonsense, child ; there is nothing in this 
world I have such a dread of as that confounded woman— 
and to come at such a time ! 

Lucy. — When does she speak of paying her visit? 

Sir George. — I knew you had not read the note ; she's 
coming here to-night, is on her way this instant, perhaps. 
What is to be done? If she forces her way in here, I shall 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 55 

go deranged outright. O'Malley, my boy, read this note, 
and you will not feel surprised if I appear in the humor 
you see me. 

O'Malley (he takes note from Lucy).— " Dear Brother, — 
When this reaches your hand I'll not be far off. — I am on 
my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the ould 
complaint. Crowley mistakes my case entirely, he says it's 
nothing but religion and wind. Father Magrath, who un- 
derstands a good deal about females, thinks otherwise — but 
God knows who's right. Expect me to tea, and with love 
to Lucy, believe me yours, in haste, Judith Macan. Let 
the sheets be well aired in my room ; and if you have a 
spare bed perhaps we could prevail upon Father Magrath 
to stop too." (He laughs heartily and so does Lucy.) 

Sir George. — I say, Lucy, there's only one thing to be 
done ; if this horrid woman does arrive, let her be shown 
to her room, and for the few days of her stay in town we'll 
neither see nor be seen by any one. (He turns away.) 

Enter Servant with Webber, disguised as Miss Judith 
Macan ; also Power and others. 

Servant. — Miss Macan. (A look of horror spreads over 
Sir George's face, while Lucy shrinks back.) 

Sir George (stepping forward and taking her hand af- 
fectionately) . — Judith, I welcome you to Dublin. 

Webber (throwing his arms about Sir George's neck and 
giving him a hearty smack). — Where's Lucy, brother? Let 
me embrace my little darling. There she is, I'm sure ; 
kiss me, my honey. (He kisses her very loudly. She leads 
him to the sofa zuhere they sit and converse.) 

Power (touching Sir George lightly and speaking in a 
a low voice) . — Sir George, would it be too much — an in- 
troduction to Miss Macan? 



5 6 MISS JUDITH MACAN. 

Sir George. — Certainly, I'll introduce you, if you desire 
it. (He approaches the sofa. The occupants rise.) Miss 
Macan, I present Captain Power. 

Webber. — I'm right glad to see you, Captain Power. 
(He holds out his hand.) 

Power (he seizes hand and carries it to his lips) . — I hope 
you will do me the favor to dance next set with me, Miss 
Macan. 

Webber. — Really, Captain, it's very polite of you \ but 
you must excuse me ; I was never anything great in 
quadrilles ; but if a reel or a jig 

Lucy. — Oh, dear, aunt, don't think of it, I beg of you. 

Power. — Then, I'm certain you waltz? 

Webber (with resentment) . — What do you take me for, 
young man? I hope I know better. I wish Father 
Magrath heard you ask me that question, and for all your 
lace jacket 

Lucy. — Dearest aunt, Captain Power didn't mean to 
offend you ; I'm certain he 

Webber. — Well, why did he dare to — (sobs) — did he see 
anything light about me, that he — (more sobs) , oh, dear, 
oh, dear ! Is it for this I came up from my little peaceful 
place in the West? (Sobs.) General, George, dear Lucy, 
my love, I'm taken bad. Oh, dear, oh, dear — is there any 
whiskey negus ? (Lucy and Power help Webber off, while 
others go after a restorative.) 

Scene II. 

Sir George and an old nobleman are conversing as O'Mal- 
ley approaches. He waits a moment. 

Nobleman. — True, upon my honor, Sir George, I saw it 
myself, and she did it just as dexterously as the oldest 
blackleg in Paris. 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 57 

Sir George. — Why, you don't mean to say that she 
cheated ? 

Nobleman. — Yes, but I do though — turned the ace every 
time. Lady Herbert said to me, " Very extraordinary it 
is — four by honors again.' ' So I looked and then I per- 
ceived it — a very old trick it is ; but she did it beautifully. 
What's her name ? 

Enter Power and Webber {alias Miss Macan), conversing. 

Sir George {seeing his supposed sister approaching and 
becoming confused). — Some western name, I forget it. 

Nobleman. — Clever old woman, very. {Sir George and 
the nobleman retire through door on opposite side. Webber 
goes out again through the door he entered, leaving O'Malley 
and Power on platform.) 

Power. — I say, Charley, it is capital fun — never met 
anything equal to her. But the poor general never will live 
through it, and I am certain of ten days' arrest for this 
night's proceeding. 

O'Malley. — Any news of Webber? 

Power. — Oh, yes, I fancy I can tell something of him, 
for I heard of some one presenting himself, and being 
refused entrance. So Master Frank Webber has lost his 
money. {O'Malley goes out as Sir George did and Webber 
re-enters. To Webber). — Upon my soul, you're an angel, 
a regular angel; I never saw a woman suit my fancy 
before. 

Webber. — Oh, behave now, Father Magrath says 

Power. — Who's he? 

Webber. — The priest, no less. 

Power. — Oh ! confound him. 

Webber. — Confound Father Magrath, young man? 

Power. — Well, then, Judy, don't be angry. I only meant 



5 8 MISS JUDITH MACAN. 

that a dragoon knows rather more of these matters than a 
priest. 

Webber. — Well, now, I'm not so sure of that. But any- 
how I'd have you to remember it ain't a Widow Malone 
you have beside you. 

Power. — Never heard of the lady. 

A^ebber. — Sure, it's a song — poor creature — it's a song 
they made about her in the North Cork. 
Power. — I wish to Heaven you'd sing it. 
Webber. — What will you give me then if I do? 
Power. — Anything — everything — my heart, my life. 
Webber. — I wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. 
Give me that old green ring on your finger, then. 

Power. — It's yours. {He places it gracefully on Webbei^s 
finger.} And now for your promise. 

Webber. — Maybe, my brother might not like it. 
Power. — He'd be delighted. He dotes on music. 
Webber. — Does he, now? 
Power. — Upon my honor, he does. 

Webber. — Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the 
song has one, and here it is. 

Power {lie goes to door and raps). — Miss Macan's song ! 
Miss Macan's song. {All except Sir George enter and call 
out, " Miss Ma can' 's so ng. ' ' ) 

Webber.*—" The Widow Malone." 

Did ye hear of the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 
Who lived in the town of Athlone, 

Alone ! 
Oh ! she melted the hearts 
Of the swains in them parts, 

* If necessary this may be recited. The whole company should 
give the short lines of two syllables. 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 59 

So lovely the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 

Of lovers she had a full score, 

Or more ! 
And fortunes they all had galore 

In store. 
From the minister down 
To the clerk of the crown, 
All were courting the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 
All were courting the Widow Malone. 

But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 

T'was known 
No one ever could see her alone, 

Ohone ! 
Let them ogle and sigh, 
They could ne'er catch her eye, 
So bashful the Widow Malone 

Ohone ! 
So bashful the Widow Malone. 

Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare, 

How quare? 
It's little for blushin' they care 

Down there ; 
Put his arm round her waist, 
Gave ten kisses, at laste, 
"Oh," says he, " you're my Molly Malone,] 

My own ; " 
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone." 

And the widow they all thought so shy, 

My eye I 



60 MISS JUDITH MACAN. 

Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, 

For why? 
But " Lucius," says she, 
" Since you've made now so free, 
You may marry your Mary Malone," 

Ohone! 
"You may marry your Mary Malone." 

There's a moral contained in my song, 

Not wrong; 

And one comfort it's not very long, 

But strong ; 

If for widows you die, 

Larn to kiss, not to sigh ; 

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 

Ohone ' 

Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. 

All. — Widow Malone, ohone ! 
Widow Malone, ohone ! 

Sir George enters and while a/most all turn toward him, 
and then go out, the following short dialogue takes 
place. 

Power. — I insist on a copy of the " Widow," Miss 
Macan ! 

Webber. — To be sure ; give me a call to-morrow ; let 
me see, about two ; Father Magrath won't be at home. 

Power. — Where, pray, may I pay my respects? 

Webber. — Number 22, South Anne Street — very respect- 
able lodgings. I'll write the address in your pocket-book. 
{Power produces a card and a pencil. Webber writes a 
few lines.) There, now, don't read it here before the 



MISS JUDITH MACAN. 6 1 

people. They'll think it mighty indelicate in me to make 
an appointment. (Power puts card in his pocket.) 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. — Carriage for Miss Macan. (Sir George hur- 
ries over to her and helps her to the carriage. Servant 
goes out.) 

Power (to a young officer standing in a group near by). — 
There is a conquest for you. Doubt it who will, she has 
invited me to call on her to-morrow — written her address 
on my card — told me the hour when she is certain of being 
alone. See here ! (He pulls out the card and hands it to 
the officer.) 

Officer. — So, this isn't it, Power. 

Power. — To be sure it is, man. Anne street is devilish 
seedy ; but that's the quarter. 

Officer. — Why, confound it, man, there's not a word of 
that here. 

Power. — Read it out. Proclaim my victory. 

Officer. — " Dear P. — Please pay to my credit, and soon, 
mark ye, the two ponies lost this evening. I have done 
myself the pleasure of enjoying your ball, kissed the lady, 
quizzed the papa, and walked into the cunning Fred Power. 

Yours, Frank Webber. 

The Widow Malone, ohone* is at your service." 

All laugh. Lucy blushes and turns away. Power stamps 
and raves. 

CURTAIN, 



HELEN AND MODUS. 



Adapted from " The Hunchback," by Sheridan Knowles= 



CHARACTERS. 

Helen, a young lady, vivacious and beautiful. 

Modus, her cousin, fresh from college and bashful. 

Situation. — Helen loves Modus and perceives that he loves 
her. She has tried in vain to make him speak. At 
last she decides to tantalize him by her boldness until 
he declares his love. 

These scenes take place about two and a half centuries 
ago, in a castle which Helen, Modus, and others are 
visiting under the management of Master Walter. 
Just befote the second scene Master Walter has 
informed Helen that a husband has ah'eady been 
chosen for her. The same setting may answer for 
both scenes, or the first may be in a parlor and the 
seco?id in a wide corridor. In the first scene he must 
wear an old-fashioned ruff about his neck. In the 
second scene all chairs should be removed from the 
stage. 

Scene I. 

Enter Helen, listlessly. 
Helen. — I'm weary wandering from room ^o room ; 

A castle after all is but a house 

62 



HELEN AND MODUS. 63 

The dullest one when lacking company. 

Were I at home I could be company 

Unto myself. 

I'll go to bed and sleep. No — I'll stay up 

And plague my cousin into making love. 

For, that he loves me, shrewdly I suspect. 

How dull is he that hath not sense to see 

What lies before him, and he'd like to find. 

I'll change my treatment of him — cross him, where 

Before I used to humor him. He comes, 

Poring upon a book. 

Enter Modus, slowly, with his eyes on his open book. 
What's that you read ? 

Modus. — Latin, sweet cousin. 

Helen. — Tis a naughty tongue 

I fear, and teaches men to lie. 

Modus.— To lie ! 

Helen. — You study it. You call your cousin sweet, 
And treat her as you would a crab. 
You construe Latin, and can't construe that? 

Modus. — I never studied women. 

Helen. — No; nor men. 

Else would you better know their ways ; nor read 
In presence of a lady. {Strikes the book from his hand.) 

Modus. — Right, you say 

And well you served me, cousin, so to strike 
The volume from my hand. I own my fault. 
So please you, may I pick it up again? 
I'll put it in my pocket. 

Helen. — Pick it up. 

He fears me as I were his grandmother. 
What is the book? 

Modus. — 'Tis Ovid's Art of Love. 



64 HELEN AND MODUS. 

Helen. — That Ovid was a fool ! 

Modus. — In what? 

Helen. — In that : 

To call that thing an art which art is none. 

Modus. — And is not love an art? 

Helen. — Are you a fool 

As well as Ovid ? Love an art ! No art 
But taketh time and pains to learn. Love comes 
With neither. Is't to hoard such grain as that 
You went to college ? Better stay at home 
And study homely English. 

Modus. — Nay, you know not 

The argument. 

Helen. — I don't? I know it better 
Than ever Ovid did ! 
Suppose a lady were in love with thee, 
Could'st thou, by Ovid, cousin, find it out? 
Could'st find it out, wast thou in love thyself? 
Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love ? 
I could, that never read him. You begin 
With melancholy ; then to sadness ; then 
To sickness ; then to dying — but not die ! 
She. would not let thee, were she of my mind ; 
She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope ; 
From hope to confidence ; from confidence 
To boldness — then you speak ; at first entreat ; 
Then urge ; then flout ; then argue ; then enforce ; 
Make prisoner of her hand ; besiege her waist ; 
Threaten her lips with storming ; keep thy word 
And carry her ! My sampler 'gainst thy Ovid ! (She 

crosses in front of him. He stands like a post?) 
Why cousin, are you frightened, that you stand 
As you were stricken dumb ? The case is clear 



HELEN AND MODUS. 65 

You are no soldier. You'll ne'er win a battle, 
You care too much for blows ! 

Modus. — You wrong me there. 
At school I was the champion of my form 
And since I went to college 



Helen. — That for college ! {She crosses again and 
sna/>s her fingers.) 

Modus. — Nay, hear me ! 

Helen. — Well? What since you went to college? (He 
hesitates.) 
What since you went to college? Was there not 
One Quentin Halworth there? You know there was, 
And that he was your master. 

Modus (indignantly). — He my master ! 
Thrice was he worsted by me. 

Helen. — Still was he 

Your master. 

Modus. — He allowed I had the best ! 
Allowed it, mark me ! Nor to me alone, 
But twenty I could name. 

Helen. — And mastered you 

At last ! Confess it, cousin, 'tis the truth. 
A proctor's daughter {lie turns away to think) you did both 

affect — 
Look at me and deny it ! Of the twain 
She more affected you \ — I've caught you now. 
An opportunity she gave you, sir — 
Deny it if you can ! — but though to others, 
When you discoursed of her you were a flame, 
To her you were a wick that would not light, 
Though held in the very fire ! And so he won her — 
Won her, because he wooed her like a man, 
For all your curlings, cuffing you again 



66 HELEN AND MODUS. 

With most usurious interest. Now, sir, 
Protest that you are valiant ! 

Modus. — Cousin Helen ! 

Helen. — Well, sir? 

Modus. — The tale is all a forgery ! 

Helen. — A forgery ! 

Modus. — From first to last : ne'er spoke I 

To a proctor's daughter while I was at college. 

Helen. — It was a scrivener's, then — or somebody's. 
But what concerns it whose ? Enough, you loved her, 
And, shame upon you, let another take her ! 

Modus. — Cousin, I tell you, if you'll only hear me, 
I loved no woman while I was at college — (He catches 

himself?) 
Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there. 

Helen (to herself}. — Indeed ! Now I'll retreat, if he's 
advancing. 
Comes he not on ! Oh, what a stock's the man ! — 
Well, cousin? 

Modus (blankly). — Well? What more would'st have me 
say? 
I think I've said enough. 

Helen. — And so think I. 

I did but jest with you. You are not angry ? 
Shake hands ! (He coldly touches her fingers.} Why, 
cousin, do you squeeze me so? 

Modus (letting her go). — I swear I squeezed you not! 

Helen. — You did not? 

Modus. — No, 

I'll die if I did ! 

Helen. — Why, then you did not, cousin : 

So let's shake hands again — (He takes her hand as before.) 
Oh, go, and now 



HELEN AXD MODUS. 67 

Read Ovid ! Cousin, will you tell me one thing : 
Wore lovers ruffs in Master Ovid's time? 
Behoved him teach them, then, to put them on : 
And that you have to learn. Hold up your head. 
Why, cousin, how you blush. Plague on the ruff ! 
I cannot give't a set. You're blushing still ! 
Why do you blush, dear cousin? So, t'will beat me ! 
I'll give it up. 

Modus. — Nay, prithee don't, try on ! 

Helen. — And if I do, I fear you'll think me bold. 

Modus. — For what? 

Helen. — To trust my face so near to thine. 

Modus [with blank stupidity). — I know not what you 
mean. 

Helen. — I'm glad you don't? 
Cousin, I own right well behaved you are. 
Most marvelously well behaved ! They've bred 
You well at college. With another man 
My lips would be in danger ! Hang the ruff ! 

Modus {patronizingly) . — Nay, give it up, nor plague thy- 
self, dear cousin. 

Helen. — Dear fool. {Throws the ruff on the ground.) 
I swear the ruff is good for just 
As little as its master ! There ! — Tis spoiled — 
You'll have to get another. Hie for it, 
And wear it in the fashion of a wisp, 
Ere I adjust it for thee. Farewell, cousin. 
You've need to study Ovid's Art of Love. {She flounces 
out.) 

Modus. — Went she in anger? I will follow her. 
No, I will not. Heigho ! I love my cousin ! 
Oh, would that she loved me ! Why did she taunt me 
With backwardness in love? What could she mean? 



68 HELEN AND MODUS. 

Says she I love her, and so laughs at me, 

Because I lack the front to woo her? Nay, 

I'll woo her, then ! Her lips shall be in danger, 

When next she trusts them near me. Looked she at me 

To-day, as never did she look before. (He begins to read, 

pauses, a?id thrusts book into his bosom.') 
Hang Ovid's Art of Love ! I'll woo my cousin ! (He 

goes out) 

Scene II. 

Helen and Modus stand at opposite sides, make a long 
pause, then bashfully look at each other. 
Helen. — Why, cousin Modus ! What ! Will you stand 
by 
And see me forced to marry? Cousin Modus, 
Have you not got a tongue? Have you not eyes? 
Do you not see I'm very — very ill, 
And not a chair in all the corridor? 

Modus. — I'll find one in the study. {He starts out.) 
Helen. — Hang the study ! 

Modus. — My room's at hand. I'll fetch one thence. 

{He starts off on other side.) 
Helen. — You shan't ! 

I'll faint ere you come back ! 

Modus. — What shall I do? 

Helen. — Why don't you offer to support me? Well? 
Give me your arm — be quick ! (Modus offers his arm very 

stiffly?) Is that the way 
To help a lady when she's like to faint? 
I'll drop unless you catch me. (Falls against him. — He 

supports her.) That will do ; 
I'm better now. (He offers to leave her.) Don't leave me ! 
Is one well 



HELEN AND MODUS. 69 

Because one's better? Hold my hand. Keep so. — (A 

pause?) 
Well, cousin Modus? 

Modus. — Well, sweet cousin? 

Helen.— Well 

You heard what Master Walter said? 

Modus. — I did. 

Helen. — And would you have me marry? Can't you 
speak? 
Say yes or no. 

Modus. — No, cousin. 

Helen. — Bravely said ! 

And why, my gallant cousin? 

Modus.- Why? 

Helen. — Ah, w T hy ! — 

Women, you know, are fond of reasons — why 
Would you not have me marry? (He gives he?- a loving 

look.) How you look ! 
You mind me of a story of a cousin 
Who once her cousin such a question asked. 
He had not been to college, though — for books, 
Had passed his time in reading ladies' eyes, 
Which he could construe marvellously well, 
Thus stood 'Ihey once together, on a day — 
As we stand now — discoursed as we discourse, — 
But with this difference, — fifty gentle words 
He spoke to her, for one she spoke to him ! 
As now I questioned thee, she questioned him, 
And what was his reply? To think of it 
Sets my heart beating — 'twas so kind a one ! 
So like a cousin's answer — a dear cousin ! 
A gentle, honest, gallant, loving cousin ! 
What did he say? 



70 HELEN AND MODUS. 

Modus {shaking his head). — On my soul I can't tell. 

Helen. — A man might find it out, 
Though never read he Ovid's Art of Love. 
What did he say? He'd marry her himself ! 
How stupid are you, cousin ! Let me go ! 

Modus (he holds her the more tightly), — You are not 
well yet. 

Helen. — Yes. 

Modus. — I'm sure you're not. 

Helen. — I'm sure I am. 

Modus. — Nay, let me hold you, cousin ! 

I like it. (He gazes at her.) 

Helen. — How you stare ! 
What see you in my face to wonder at? 

Modus. — A pair of eyes ! 

Helen. — And saw you ne'er a pair of eyes before? 

Modus. — Not such a pair. 

Helen. — And why? 

Modus. — They are so bright ! 

You have a Grecian nose. 

Helen. — Indeed ? 

Modus. — Indeed ! 

Helen. — What kind of mouth have I ? 

Modus. — ■ A handsome one. 

I never saw so sweet a pair of lips ! 
I ne'er saw lips at all till now, dear cousin ! 

Helen. — Cousin, I am well ; you need not hold me now. 
Do you not hear? (She struggles a little^) I tell you I 

am well ! 
I need your arm no longer — take't away ! 
So tight it locks me, 'tis with pain I breathe ! 
Let me go, cousin ! Wherefore do you hold 
Your face so close to mine? What do you mean? 



HELEN AND MODUS. 7 1 

Modus. — You've questioned me, and now I'll question 
you. 

Helen. — What would you learn? 

Modus. — The use of lips? 

Helen. — To speak? 

Modus. — Naught else? 

Helen. — Why, other use know you? 

Modus. — I do. 

Helen. — Indeed ! 

You're wondrous wise ! And pray what is it? 

Modus. — This ! {He attempts to kiss her, but she inter- 
poses her hand and pushes him away.) 

Helen. — Soft ! My hand thanks you, cousin, — for my 
lips 
I keep them for a husband ! {Crosses.) Nay, stand off ! 
I'll not be held in manacles again ! (He follows.) 
Why do you follow me? 

Modus. — I love you, cousin ! 

Helen. — Oh, cousin, say you so? That's passing 
strange ! 
A thing to sigh for, weep for, languish for, 
And die for ! 

Modus. — Die for ! 

Helen. — Yes, with laughter, cousin ! 

For, cousin, I love you ! 

Modus. — And you'll be mine? 

Helen. — I will. 

Modus. — Your hand upon it. 

Helen. — Hand and heart. 

Hie to thy dressing room, and I'll to mine 

Attire thee for the altar — so will I. 

Whoe'er may claim me, thou'rt the man shall have me. 

Away ! Despatch ! But hark you, ere you go, 



72 HELEN AND MODUS. 

Ne'er brag of reading Ovid's Art of Love . 

Modus. — And, cousin, stop ; one little word with you ! 
(He beckons Helen over to him, snatches a kiss. — 
She runs off ; he takes the book from his bosom, 
which he had put there in former scene, looks at it 
and throws it down. He goes out by another door.) 



SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Mr. Pickwick, a fleshy old gentleman, neatly dressed. 
Mr. Weller, a stout man with a red nose, roughly dressed. 
Sam Weller, young man, rather gaudily dressed. 
Situation. — Mr. Pickwick and Sam have just seated them- 
selves at a table in a tavern when the actions of a man 
across the room attract their attention. Mr. Pickwick 
is seated at the head of the table, his side to the audience \ 
Sam, at a respectful distance away at the side of the 
table, facing the audience. Mr. Weller Senior faces 
Mr. Pickwick and sits smocking a pipe on the othe? 
side of the stage beside a small table on -which is a pot 
of ale. 
Mr. Weller {drinks from his pot of ale, sets it doivn, 
stares across at Mr. Pickwick and at Sam, shades his 
eyes with his hand, then speaks slowly). — Wy, Sammy! 
Mr. Pickwick. — Who's that, Sam? 

Sam Weller. — Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, sir. It's 
the old 'un. 

Mr. Pickwick. — Old one, what old one ? 
Sam. — My father, sir. {His father comes over.) How 
are you, my ancient? {Makes room for him on the seat 
beside him.) 

Mr. Weller. — Wy, Sammy, I ha'n't seen you for two 
years and better. 

73 



74 SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 

Sam. — No more you have, old codger. How's mother- 
in-law ? 

Mr. Weller. — Wy, I'll tell you what, Sammy, there never 
was a nicer woman as a widder, than that 'ere second wentur 
o' mine — a sweet creetur she was, Sammy • all I can say 
on her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant 
widder, it's a great pity she ever changed her con-di-tion. 
She don't act as a vife, Sammy. 

Sam. — Don't she, though? 

Mr. Weller {with a sigh and a shake of his head). — 
I've done it once too often. Sammy ; I've done it once 
too often. Take example by your father my boy, and be 
wery careful o' widders all your life, specially if they've 
kept a public house, Sammy. {He pauses , refills his pipe 
from a tin box he carries in his pocket, and commences 
smoking again at a great rate. Then he turns suddenly 
to Mr. Pickwick?) Beg your pardon, sir, {pause) nothin' 
personal, I hope, sir ; I hope you ha'n't got a widder, sir. 

Mr. Pickwick.— Not I — {Laughs while Sam whispers to 
his parent,) 

Mr. Weller {taking off his hat). — Beg your pardon, sir; 
I hope you've no fault to find with Sammy, sir ? 

Mr. Pickwick. — None whatever. 

Mr. Weller. — Wery glad to hear it, sir ; I took a deal 
o' pains with his eddication, sir ; let him run in the streets 
when he was wery young, and shift for his-self. It's the 
only way to make a boy sharp, sir. 

Mr. Pickwick. — Rather a dangerous process, I should 
imagine. 

Sam. — And not a wery sure one, neither ; I got reg'larly 
done the other day. 

Mr. Weller. — No ! 

Sam. — I did. Reglar do, artful dodge. 



SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 75 

Mr. Pickwick. — I don't think he'll escape us quite so 
easily the next time, Sam? 

Sam. — I don't think he will sir. 

Mr. Pickwick. — Whenever I meet that Jingle again, 
whenever it is, (bringing down his fist on the table) I'll 
inflict personal chastisement on him in addition to the ex- 
posure he so richly merits, I will, or my name is not Pick- 
wick. 

Sam. — And wenever I catches hold o' that there melan- 
cholly chap with the black hair, Job Trotter, if I don't 
bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a way, 
my name a'nt Weller. 

Mr. Weller. — Worn't one o' these chaps slim and tall, 
with long hair, and the gift o' the gab wery gallopin' ? 

Mr. Pickwick (doubtfully). — Y — yes. 

Mr. Weller. — T' other's a black-haired chap in mulberry 
livery with a wery large head ! 

Mr. Pickwick and Sam. {together). — Yes, yes, he is. 

Mr. Weller. — Then I know where they are, and that's 
all about it ; they're at Ipswich, safe enough, them two. 

Mr. Pickwick. — No ! 

Mr. Weller. — Fact and I'll tell you how I know it. I 
work an Ipswich coach now and then for a friend o' mine. 
I worked down the wery day arter the night as you caught 
the rheumatiz, and at the Black Boy at Chelmesford — the 
wery place they'd come to — I took 'em up, right through 
to Ipswich, where the man servant — him in the mulberries 
— told me they was a goin' to put up for a long time. 

Mr. Pickwick. — I'll follow him ; we may as well see 
Ipswich as any other place. I'll follow him. 

Sam (to his father).— You're quite certain it was them, 
governor ? 

Mr. Weller. — Quite, Sammy, quite, for their appearance 



76 SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 

is wery sing'ler ; besides that 'ere, I wondered to see the 
gen'lm'n so formiliar with his servant ; and more than that 
as they sat in front, right behind the box. I heerd 'em 
laughing, and saying how they'd done old Fireworks. 

Mr. Pickwick. — Old who? 

Mr. Weller. — Old Fireworks, sir; by which, I've no 
doubt, they meant you, sir. 

Mr. Pickwick (with an emphatic blow on the table). — I'll 
follow him. 

Mr. Weller. — I shall work down to Ipswich the day 
arter to-morrow, sir, from the Bull in White chapel ; and if 
you really mean to go you'd better go with me. (Moving 
away.) 

Mr. Pickwick. — So we had, very true. We will go with 
you. But don't hurry away, Mr. Weller; won't you take 
anything ? 

Mr. Weller (stopping short). — You're wery good, sir, 
perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health and 
success to Sammy, sir, wouldn't be amiss. 

Mr. Pickwick. — Certainly not. (Pours a glass of brandy, 
which Mr. Weller jerks down after pulling his hair to Mr. 
Pickwick and nodding to Sam.) 

Sam. — Well done, father, take care, old fellow, or you'll 
have a touch of your old complaint, the gout. 

Mr. Weller. — I've found a sov'rin' cure for that, 
Sammy. 

Mr. Pickwick. — A sovereign cure for the gout, what is it ? 

Mr. Weller. — The gout, sir, is a complaint as arises from 
too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked with the 
gout, sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, 
with a decent notion of usin' it, and you'll never have the 
gout agin. It's a capital prescription, sir. I takes it 
reg'lar, and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is 
caused by too much jollity. (Sighs deeply and goes out.) 



SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. 77 

Mr. Pickwick. — Well, what do you think of what your 
father says, Sam? 

Sam. — Think, sir ! why, I think he's the wictim o' con- 
nubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, with a 
tear of pity, ven he buried him. 

CURTAIN- 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 



CHARACTERS. 

Frau Fischer, a fleshy woman of middle age. 
Herr Schmidt, a young man. 

Situation. — As the outcome of a quarrel at the shop of 
Herr Fischer, a poor Count in his employ took off a 
musical doll. White the Count was eating in a res- 
taurant a man at a neighboring table claimed that the 
doll had been stolen fro7n him some months before. So 
much of a disturbance arose that the police were called 
in and all concerned were at rested* and taken to the 
police station. 

Herr Schmidt, employed in the same shop as the 

Count, hurries away to the home of Herr Fischer in 

order to get him to prove property and rescue the Count 

from jail. The following scene shows the result of his 

endeavors. 

The dialogue takes place in the sitting-room of Frau 
Fischer. Herr Schmidt is in the room and a 
moment later the Frau enters to learn his errand. 
Herr Schmidt. — Good evening, Frau Fischer. I would 
like to speak to your husband upon a little matter of busi- 
ness. 

Frau Fischer. — He is not at home yet. I left him in 
the shop. {Schmidt turns and hurries away.) Wait a 
minute ! What in the world are you in such a hurry about ? 

78 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 79 

Herr Schmidt (stopping suddenly). — Oh — nothing — 
nothing especial. 

Frau Fischer (putting her hands on her hips and hold- 
ing her head a little on one side) . — Well, I must say, for a 
man who is not in a hurry about anything, you are uncom- 
monly brisk with your feet. If it is only a matter of busi- 
ness, I daresay I will do as well as my husband. 

Herr Schmidt. — Oh, I daresay. But this is rather a 
personal matter of business, you see 

Frau Fischer. — And you mean that you want some 
money, I suppose. 

Herr Schmidt. — No, no, not at all — no money at all. 
It is not a question of money. {Begins to move away slowly.) 

Frau Fischer (at first with a puzzled expression, then as 
if a new idea had come to her) . — Have you seen the Count? 

Herr Schmidt (in a doubtful to?ie of voice). — Yes, I 
believe — in fact, I did see him — for a moment 

Frau Fischer (smiling to herself). — I thought so. And 
he has made some trouble about that wretched doll 

Herr Schmidt {very much astonished). — How did you 
guess that? 

Frau Fischer. — Oh, I know many things — many interest- 
ing things. And now you want to warn my husband of 
what the Count has done, do you not? It must be some- 
thing serious, since you are in such a hurry. Come, Herr 
Schmidt, have a cup of tea. Fischer will be home in a few 
minutes, and you see I have guessed half your story, so you 
may as well tell me the other half and be done with it. It 
is of no use for you to go to the shop after him. He has 
shut up by this time and you cannot tell which way he will 
come home, can you? Much better have a cup of tea. 
Everything is ready, so that you need not stay long. (Schmidt 
after a good deal of hesitation sits down at a small table. 



80 EXTRACTING A SECRET. 

Frau Fischer pours out two cups of tea at a little stand at 
the side of the rootn and carries them to the little table for 
herself and Herr Schmidt. She seats herself opposite to him.) 
The poor Count ! He is sure to get himself into trouble 
some day. I suppose people cannot help behaving oddly 
when they are mad, poor things. And the Count is 
certainly mad, Herr Schmidt. 

Herr Schmidt. — Quite mad, poor man. He has had 
one of his worst attacks to-day. 

Frau Fischer. — Yes, and if you could have seen him 
and heard him in the shop this evening — (holds tip her 
hands and shakes her head?) 

Herr Schmidt. — What did he do ? 

Frau Fischer. — Oh, such things, such things ! Poor 
man, of course I am very sorry for him, and I am glad that 
my husband finds room to employ him, and keep him from 
starving. But really, this evening he quite made me lose 
my temper. I am afraid I was a little rough, considering 
that he is sensitive. But to hear the man talk about his 
money, and his titles, and his dignities, when he is only 
just able to keep body and soul together ! It is enough to 
irritate the seven archangels, Herr Schmidt, indeed it is ! 
And then at the same time there was that dreadful music 
doll, and my head was splitting — I am sure there will be a 
thunder storm to-night — altogether, I could not bear it any 
longer and I actually upset the doll out of anger, and it 
rolled to the floor and was broken. Of course, it is very 
foolish to loose one's temper in that way, but after all I am 
only a weak woman, and I confess it was a relief to me 
when I saw the poor count take the thing away. I hope I 
did not really hurt his feelings, for he is an excellent work- 
man in spite of his madness. What did he say, Herr 
Schmidt? 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 8 1 

Herr Schmidt. — To tell the truth he did not like what 
you said to him at all. 

Frau Fischer. — Well, really, was it my fault, Herr 
Schmidt, if I lose my temper once in a year or so? It is 
very wearing on the nerves. Every Tuesday evening begins 
the same old song about the fortune and letters, and the 
journey to Russia. 

Herr Schmidt. — Do you think that Herr Fischer can 
have gone anywhere else instead of coming home? (He has 
hurriedly swallowed his cup of tea.) 

Frau Fischer (convincingly). — Oh no, indeed. He 
always tells me where he is going. You have no idea what 
a good husband he is. Now I am sure that if he had the 
least idea that anything had happened to the poor Count, 
he would run all the way home in order to hear it as soon 
as possible. (She takes his cup for more tea.) 

Herr Schmidt. — No more tea, thank you, Frau Fischer. 
(Nevertheless she takes the cup and fills it again. Schmidt 
looks resigned.) Thank you ! 

Frau Fischer. — Of course it is nothing so very serious, 
is it? I daresay the Count has told you that he would not 
work any more for us, and you are anxious to arrange the 
matter? In that case you need have no fear. lam 
always ready to forgive and forget, as they say, though I 
am only a weak woman. 

Herr Schmidt. — That is very kind of you. 

Frau Fischer. — I guessed the truth, did I not? 

Herr Schmidt. — Not exactly. — The trouble is rather 
more serious than that. The fact is, as we were at supper, 
a man at another table saw the musical doll in our hands 
and swore that it had been stolen from him some months ago. 

Frau Fischer (with sudden interest). — And what hap- 
pened then? 



82 EXTRACTING A SECRET. 

Herr Schmidt (regretfully) . — I suppose you may as well 
know. There was a row and the man made a great deal 
of trouble and at last the police were called in, and I came 
to get Herr Fischer himself to come and prove that the 
doll was his. You see why I am in such a hurry. 

Frau Fischer. -Do you think they have arrested the Count? 

Herr Schmidt. — I imagine that every one concerned 
would be taken to the police station. 

Frau Fischer. — And then? 

Herr Schmidt. — And then, unless the affair is cleared 
up, they will be kept there all night. 

Frau Fischer {holding up her hands in horror}. — All 
night ! Poor Count ! He will be quite crazy now, I fear — 
especially as this is Tuesday evening. 

Herr Schmidt (with decision). — Then he must be got 
out at once. Herr Fischer will surely not allow 

Frau Fischer. — No, indeed ! You have only to wait 
until he comes home, and then you can go together. Or, 
better still, if he does not come back in a quarter of an 
hour, and if he has really shut up his shop as usual, you 
might look for him at the Cafe Leopold, and if he is not 
there, it is just possible that he may have looked in at the 
theatre, for which he often has free tickets — and if the per- 
formance is over, he may be in the Cafe Maximilian, or he 
may have gone to drink a glass of beer 

Herr Schmidt (jumping to his feet). — But, good Hea- 
vens, Frau Fischer, you said you were quite sure he was 
coming home at once ! Now I have lost all this time. 

Frau Fischer (smiling). — You see it is just possible that 
to-night, as he was a little annoyed with me for being sharp 
with the Count, he may have gone somewhere without tell- 
ing me. But I really could not foresee it, because he is 
such a good 



EXTRACTING A SECRET. 83 

Herr Schmidt. — I know. If 1 miss him, you will tell 
him, will you not? Thank you, and good night, Frau 
Fischer, I cannot afford to wait a moment longer. (He 
goes out.} 

Frau Fischer. — Oh, ho ! Herr Fischer is at the other 
end of the city. (She goes out.) 



OPEN OR SHUT? 



Adapted from a proverb in o?ie act by Alfred de Musset, entitled " A door must be 
either open or shut." 



CHARACTERS. 

Count, an interesting, intelligent gentleman who lives op- 
posite the Marquise. 

Marquise, a wealthy lady, of sparkling wit, who thoroughly 

unde?'sta?ids and plays with the Count. 
Situation. — The Count calls to propose to the Marquise, 
but her repartee holds him off and brings hint into vari- 
ous ridiculous situations. 

There should be an exit 011 each side, a window 
should be near the door at which the Count enters. 
The fire is opposite this door, and there should be some 
logs near by and also a fite-sa-een. A cushion should 
be somewhere at hand. The room otherwise should 
be fitted up as elegantly as possible. 
The Marquise is seated on a sofa near the fire embroider- 
ing, when the Count enters a door from the opposite 
side and bows. 
Count. — My memory is shocking. I can't possibly re- 
member your day. Whenever I want to see you, it is sure 
to be a Tuesday. 

Marquise. — Have you anything to say to me? 

Count. — No ; but suppose I had, I could not say it. 

84 



OPEN OR SHUT? 85 

Within the next quarter of an hour, you are sure to have a 
mob of intimate friends in here. I warn you they will put 
me to flight. 

Marquise. — It is true that to-day is my day. Everybody 
has a day. It is the only way to see as little as possible of 
people. When I say "I am at home on Tuesdays," it is 
as if I said, " Leave me in peace on the other days." 

Count. — That makes it all the worse for me to come to- 
day, since you allow me to see you in the week 

Marquise. — Sit down. If you are in a good temper, 
you may talk ; if not warm yourself. (He sits, showing 
considerable emotion scarcely controlled.) But what is the 
matter with you? You seem 

Count (controlling himself) . — What ? 

Marquise. — I would not say the word for the world. 

Count (relieved). — Well, indeed, then I will admit it. 
Before I came in I was a little 

Marquise. — What? It is my turn now to ask. 

Count {with some agitation). — Will you be angry if I tell 
you? 

Marquise. — There's a ball this evening and I want to 
look my best ; so I shall not lose my temper all day. 

Count (apparently giving up his purpose to propose) . — 
Well, I was a little bored. I don't know what to do. I 
am as stupid as a magazine article. 

Marquise. — I can say the same for myself. I am bored 
to extinction. It is the weather, no doubt. 

Count. — The fact is, cold is abominable. 

Marquise. — Perhaps it is because we are growing old. 
I am begining to be thirty, and am losing my talent for 
existence. 

Count. — It is a talent I never had, and what frightens 
me is that I am picking it up. As one ages, one turns 



&6 OPEN OR SHUT? 

fogy or fool, and I am {in a tone of despair) desperately 
afraid of dying a wiseacre. 

Marquise {apparently shocked), — Ring for them to put 
a log on the fire. Your idea freezes me. {A ring of the 
door-bell is heard outside,) 

Count. — It is not worth while. There is a ring at the 
door, and your procession is arriving. 

Marquise. — Let us see who will carry the flag; and 
above all, do your best to stay. 

Count. — No ; decidedly I am off. 

Marquise.- — Where are you going? 

Count. — I haven't an idea. {He rises, bows and opens 
the door,) Adieu, madam, till Thursday evening. 

Marquise. — Why Thursday ? 

Count. — Is it not your day at the opera? I will go and 
pay you a little visit. 

Marquise. — I don't want you ; you are too cross. Be- 
sides, I take M. Camus. 

Count. — M. Camus, your country neighbor? {He takes 
a step back into the room.) 

Marquise. — Yes. He sold me apples and hay with 
great politeness, and I want to return the favor. 

Count. — The most wearisome creature ! By the way, do 
you know what the world says ? 

Marquise. — No. But no one is coming. Who rang 
there ? 

Count {looking out of window). — No one. A little girl, 
I think with a bandbox — something or other — a washer- 
woman. She is there in the court talking to your servants. 

Marquise. — You call that something or other. That's 
polite. It is my bonnet. — Well, what are they saying about 
me and M. Camus? — Do shut that door. There's a terrible 
draught. 



OPEN OR SHUT? S7 

Count (shutting the door). — People are saying that you 
are thinking of marrying again, and that M. Camus is a 
millionaire, and that he comes very often to your house. 

Marquise. — Really! Is that all? And you tell me 
that to my face ? 

Count. — I tell it you because people are talking of it. 

Marquise. — That is a pretty reason. Do I repeat to 
you all the world says of you? 

Count (astonished). — Of me, madam? What can it be? 
You frighten me. 

Marquise. — One more proof that the world is right. 

Count (sitting down). — I implore you, Marquise. I 
ask it as a favor. You are the person in all the world 
whose opinion I value most. 

Marquise (calmly). — One of the persons, you mean. 

Count. — No, madam, I say the person — she whose es- 
teem, whose opinion 

Marquise. — Good heavens ! you are going to turn a 
phrase. 

Count. — Not at all. You can't but understand. 

Marquise (in a bantering tone). — I only understand 
what people tell me, and even then I am hard of hearing. 

Count (a little angry). — You laugh at everything; but 
candidly (he becomes almost passionate), could it be pos- 
sible that after seeing you for a whole year, with your wit, 
your beauty, your grace 

Marquise (with affected horror). — But, good heavens ! 
this is worse than a phrase ; it is a declaration. Warn me 
at least. Is it a declaration or a New Year's compli- 
ment? 

Count. — And suppose it were a declaration. 

Marquise. — Oh, I don't want it this morning. I told 
you I was going to a ball ; I run the risk of hearing some 



88 OPEN OR SHUT? 

this evening, and my health won't stand that sort of thing 
twice a day. (Bell rings again.) 

Count. — There's another ring. Good-by, I am off. (He 
ope?is the door but turns back.) Will you not repeat what 
was said to you about me, Marquise ? 

Marquise. — Come to the ball this evening, and we will 
have a talk. 

Count. — Yes, talk in a ballroom ! A nice spot for con- 
versation ! Do you know what I am going to do? I am 
going back to Italy. 

Marquise. — Ah ? And how will that suit mademoiselle ? 

Count. — Mademoiselle who, please? 

Marquise. — Mademoiselle — somebody. The young lady 
who is your protegee. What do I know of your ballet-girl's 
names ? 

Count. — Ah ! So that is the fine story they have been 
telling you about me ? 

Marquise. — Precisely. Do you deny it? 

Count. — It is a pack of rubbish. 

Marquise. — Do shut that door ; you are freezing me. 

Count. — I am just going. — (Looks out of window.) The 
weather has changed. It is raining and hailing as hard as 
you please. There is another bonnet for you. 

Marquise. — But do shut that door. You can't go out 
in this weather. 

Count (shutting the door) . — With this hail you will not 
have any one here. There is one of your days wasted 

Marquise. — Not at all, since you came. Do put down 
your hat. It worries me. 

Count (putting the hat down). — A compliment, madam. 
Take care, you who profess to hate them, might have yours 
taken for truth. 

Marquise. — But I say it, and it is quite true. You give 
me great pleasure by coming to see me. 



OPEN OR SHUT? 89 

Count {sitting down near the Marquise} . — Then let me 
love you. 

Marquise. — I am quite willing. That doesn't annoy 
me the least bit in the world. 

Count. — Then let me speak of it to you. 

Marquise. — No, indeed. Because I am alone you feel 
yourself bound in honor to make love to me — this same 
eternal, intolerable love-making, that is so useless, so ridi- 
culous and so hackneyed an affair. Good heavens ! do 
you think I don't know what you could tell me? 

Count. — Is it really possible ? What, you, at your age, 
despise love ? The words of a man who loves you affect 
you like a trashy novel. His looks, gestures, sentiments 
seem like a comedy to you. Where do you come from, 
Marquise ? Who has given you these maxims ? 

Marquise. — I have come a long way, neighbor mine. 

Count. — Yes, from your nurse. Women fancy they know 
everything in the world. They know nothing at all. 

Marquise. — I beg you to put a log on the fire. 

Count {putting the log on). — You discourage a poor 
fellow by telling him, " I know what you are going to tell 
me." But has he not the right to reply, " Yes, madam, but 
when I speak to you, I forget it." There is nothing new 
under the sun. But I say in my turn, " What does that 
prove?" 

Marquise. — Come, this is better ; you are talking capi- 
tally. This is the next thing to a book. 

Count. — Yes, I am talking, and I am assuring you that 
if you are such as it is your pleasure to seem, I pity you 
most sincerely. Why ! heaven help us ! If love is a 
comedy 

Marquise. — The fire is burning badly ; that log is crooked. 

Count {arranging the fire) . — If love is a comedy, that 



90 OPEN OR SHUT? 

world-old comedy is still, after all is said and done, the best 
performance that has been invented. If the play were 
worthless the whole universe would not know it by heart ; and 
I am wrong to call it old. Is that old which is immortal? 

Marquise.— Monsieur, this is poetry. 

Count. — No, madam ; but these stale speeches, these 
compliments, declarations are excellent old things, some- 
times ridiculous, but all of them accompaniments to another 
thing which is always young. 

Marquise. — You are getting confused. What is it that is 
always old, and what is it that is always young? 

Count. — Love. 

Marquise. — Monsieur, this is eloquence. 

Count. — No, madam. I mean this ; that love is eter- 
nally young, and that the ways of expressing it are, and 
will remain, eternally old. The worn-out formulas, the 
iterations, those tags of novels — all these pass, but the king 
never dies, Love is dead ; long live Love ! 

Marquise. — Love ? 

Count. — Love. And even suppose one were merely 
fancying 

Marquise. — Give me the fire-screen there. 

Count. — This one? 

Marquise. — No, the brocaded one. Your fire is putting 
out my eyes now. 

Count {handing the screen to the Marquise). — Even, 
suppose it were merely fancy that one is in love, is not that 
a charming thing? 

Marquise. — But I tell you it is always the same thing. 

Count. — And always new, as the song says. If you are 
like your grandmother, are you the less pretty for that ? 

Marquise. — That's right, there is the chorus; pretty. 
Give me that cushion near you. 



OPEN OR SHUT? 9 1 

Count (faking cushion and holding it in his hand). — That 
Venus is made to be beautiful, to be loved and admired, 
does not bore her in the least. If the splendid figure 
Milo conceived ever had a divine model, assuredly she let 
herself be loved like any one else, like her cousin Astarte, 
like Aspasia and 

Marquise. — Monsieur, this is mythology. 

Count (still holding cushion). — No, madam, I cannot say 
how painful to me is the sight of this fashionable indifference 
this mocking, disdainful coldness. (She yawns.) People 
turn aside, or yawn, as you do at this moment, and say that 
love is a thing not to be talked of. Then why do you wear 
lace? What is that tuft of feathers doing in your hair? 

Marquise. — And what is that cushion doing in your 
hand? I asked you for it to put under my feet. 

Count (he places the cushion on the floor before the Mar- 
quise and kneels on it). — Well, then, there it is, and there 
am I too, and whether you will or no, I will make you a 
proposal, as old as the streets and as stupid as a goose, for 
I am furious with you. 

Marquise (coldly). — Will you do me the favor to rise, if 
you please? 

Count. — No ; you must listen to me first. 

Marquise. — You will not get up ? 

Count. — No, no, and no again, as you said a moment 
ago, unless you consent to hear me. 

Marquise (rising). — Then I have the honor to wish you 
a good morning. 

Count (still on his knees) . — Marquise, in heaven's name 
this is too cruel. You will make me mad. You will drive 
me to despair. 

Marquise. — You will recover at the Cafe de Paris. 

Count (in the same position). — No, upon my honor, I 



92 OPEN OR SHUT? 

speak from my heart. It is not to-day only ; it is from the 
first day I saw you that I have loved you, that I have 
adored you. There is no exaggeration in the words I use. 
Yes for more than a year I have adored you. I have 
dreamed 

Marquise. — Adieu ! (She goes out leaving the door open,) 

Count (in desolation he remains kneeling a moment lon- 
ger, then he rises with a shiver). — That door is icy. (He 
starts out but sees the Marquise.) Ah, Marquise, you are 
laughing at me. 

Marquise (leaning against the half-open door). — So you 
have found your feet. 

Count. — Yes \ and I am going, never to see you again. 

Marquise. — Come to the ball this evening, I am keeping 
a waltz for you. 

Count. — I will never, never see you again. I am in des- 
pair ; I am lost. 

Marquise. — What is the matter with you. 

Count. — I am lost. I love you like a child. I swear to 
you on all that is most sacred in the world 

Marquise (she is going out). — Adieu ! 

Count. — It is for me to leave, madam. Stay, I beg of 
you. I feel how much I have to sutler 

Marquise (seriously) . — Let us make an end now, mon- 
sieur. What do you want with me ? 

Count (confused). — Why, madam, I wish — I would 
like 

Marquise. — What? You wear out my patience. Do 
you imagine that I am going to be your mistress? It is 
revolting. 

Count (astonished). — You, Marquise? Great heavens! 
My whole life I would lay at your feet. My name, my pro- 
perty, my honor itself I would entrust to you. Am I blind 
or mad? You my mistress? No, but my wife. 



OPEN OR SHUT? 93 

Marquise {contentedly) . — Oh ! very well. If you had told 
me^that at the beginning, we should not have quarrelled. So 
you want to marry me? 

Count. — Why, certainly, I am dying to. For this last 
year I have been thinking of nothing else. I would give 
my life-blood to be allowed the faintest hope. 

Marquise. — Wait now. You are richer than I. 

Count. — Oh dear no ! I don't think so. And what does 
it matter to you? I entreat you, let us not talk of these 
things. Your smile this moment makes me shiver with hope 
and fear. One word, for pity's sake. My life is in your 
hands. 

Marquise. — I am going to tell you two proverbs. The 
first is, Never play at cross purposes. 

Count. — Then what I have dared to tell you does not 
displease you? 

Marquise. — Oh no ! Here is my second proverb : A 
door must be either open or shut. Now for three-quarters 
of an hour here has this door, thanks to you, been neither 
one nor the other, and the room is perfectly icy. Conse- 
quence again— you are going to give me your arm to take 
me to dine at my mother's. I am going to put on my bon- 
net. 

Count. — You overwhelm me with joy. How am I to 
express 

Marquise (as she goes out on opposite side). — But do shut 
that unhappy door. This room will never be fit to live in 
again. (He goes out.) 



TAMING A WIFE. 



Adapted from a play, " The Honeymoon," by John Tobin. 



CHARACTERS. 

Duke Aranza, a tall, good-looking, strong-minded man, 

Balthazar, a powerful, irascible, elderly man. 

Juliana, beautiful, haughty, and independent, wife to Duke, 
and daughter to Balthazar. 

Pedro, usher in Duke's Palace. 

Jaques, servant to Duke, acting Duke, in absence of real 

duke. 
Campillo, steward to Duke. 
Lopez, a peasant. 
Attendants and Ladies at the Court of the Duke. 

Situation. — The Duke, immediately after his marriage, 
takes his bride not to his palace, but to a country cot- 
tage in order to tame her haughty, almost insolent spirit 
before giving her the power and position of Duchess. 
In anger at the deception, she writes to her father to 
come to her delive7'ance. After many delays he at last 
arrives only to find her now content with her humble 
life in a cottage. He nevertheless seeks redress at the 
Duke's palace. The Duke takes this occasion to re- 
turn to his real home, where Jaques has presided in 
his absence; and all parties are thus satisfied. 

94 



TAMING A WIFE. 95 

The Duke should be dressed as a peasant zintil the 
last scene, when he dons his ducal 'robes. Jaques, when 
he first appears, should have o?i some gorgeous apparel 
over his costume as chief servant. He must slip these 
garments off" before he comes in preceding the real duke. 
Juliana's attire should be simple, — in the last scene, a 
white muslin. 

Scene I. 

A room in a cottage. Table and two chairs. Enter the 
Duke, leading in Juliana. 

Duke {brings a chair fo?iuard and sits down). — You 
are welcome home. 

Juliana (crosses). — Home! You are merry; this re- 
tired spot 
Would be a palace for an owl ! 

Duke.— Tis ours 

Juliana. — Ay, for the time we stay in it. 

Duke. — By Heaven, 

This is the noble mansion that I spoke of ! 

Juliana. — This ! — You are not in earnest, though you 
bear it 
With such a sober brow. — Come, come, you jest. 

Duke. — Indeed I jest not ; were it ours in jest, 
We should have none, wife. 

Juliana. — Are you serious, sir? 

Duke. — I swear, as I'm your husband, and no duke. 

Juliana. — No duke? 

Duke. — But of my own creation, lady. 

Juliana (aside). — Am I betrayed? — Nay, do not play 
the fool ! 
It is too keen a joke. 

Duke. — You'll find it true. 



g6 TAMING A WIFE. 

Juliana. — You are no duke, then? 

Duke. — None. 

Juliana (aside). — Have I been cozened? — 

And have you no estate, sir? 
No palaces, nor houses? 

Duke. — None but this : 

A small snug dwelling, and in good repair. 

Juliana. — Nor money, nor effects? 

Duke. — None that I know of. 

Juliana. — And the attendants who have waited on us? 

Duke. — They were my friends, who, having done my 
business, 
Are gone about their own. 

Juliana {aside). — Why, then, 'tis clear. — 
That I was ever born ! — (Aloud). What are you, sir? 

Duke (rises). — I am an honest man — that may content 
you. 
Young, nor ill-favor'd — should not that content you? 
I am your husband, and that must content you. 

Juliana. — I will go home ! (Going.) 

Duke. — You are at home, already. (Staying her.) 

Juliana. — I'll not endure it ! — But remember this — 
Duke, or no duke, I'll be a duchess, sir ! (Crosses.) 

Duke. — A duchess ! You shall be a queen, — to all 
Who, by the courtesy, will call you so. 

Juliana. — And I will have attendance ! 

Duke. — So you shall, 

When you have learnt to wait upon yourself. 

Juliana. — To wait upon myself ! Must I bear this? 
I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me, 
And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes ! ( Crosses.) 

Duke. — And if you should, 'twould grow again. — 
I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife 



TAMING A WIFE. 97 

(For such, my would-be duchess, you will find me,) 
You were cut out by nature. 

Juliana. — You will find, then, 

That education, sir, has spoilt me for it. — 
Why ! do you think I'll work? 

Duke. — I think 'twill happen, wife. 

Juliana. — What ! Rub and scrub 

Your noble palace clean? 

Duke. — Those taper fingers 

Will do it daintily. 

Juliana. — And dress your victuals 

(If there be any) ? — Oh ! I could go mad ! {Crosses.) 

Duke.— And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly: 
Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to — 

Juliana. — Or like a clock, talk only once an hour? 

Duke. — Or like a dial ; for that quietly 
Performs its work, and never speaks at all. 

Juliana. — To feed your poultry and your hogs ! — Oh, 
monstrous ! 
And when I stir abroad, on great occasions 
Carry a squeaking tithe pig to the vicar ; 
Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot, 
To sell your eggs and butter ! ( Crossing.) 

Duke. — Excellent ! 

How well you sum the duties of a wife ! 
Why, what a blessing I shall have in you ! 

Juliana. — A blessing ! 

Duke. — When they talk of you and me, 

Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered : — 
We shall be happy ! 

Juliana. — Shall we ? 

Duke. — Wondrous happy ! 

Oh, you will make an admirable wife ! 
7 



98 TAMING A WIFE. 

Juliana. — I'll make a devil. 

Duke. — What? 

Juliana. — A very devil. 

Duke. — Oh, no ! We'll have no devils. 

Juliana. — I'll not bear it ! 

I'll to my father's ! — 

Duke. — Gently : you forget 

You are a perfect stranger to the road. 

Juliana. — My wrongs will find a way, or make me. 

Duke.— Softly ! 

You stir not hence, except to take the air ; 
And then I'll breathe it with you. 

Juliana. — What, confine me? 

Duke. — 'Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroad. 

Juliana. — Am I a truant schoolboy? 

Duke. — Nay, not so ; 

But you must keep your bounds. 

Juliana. — And if I break them 

Perhaps you'll beat me. — 

Duke. — Beat you ! 

The man that lays his hand upon a woman, 
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch 
Whom 'twere gross flattery to name a coward — 
I'll talk to you, lady, but not beat you. 

Juliana. — Well, if I may not travel to my father 
I may write to him, surely ! — And I will — 
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom 
Three such unhoped-for miracles at once, 
As pens, and ink, and paper. 

Duke. — You will find them 

In the next room. — A word before you go — 
You are my wife, by every tie that's sacred; 
The partner of my fortune and my bed — 



TAMING A WIFE, 99 

Juliana. — Your fortune ! 

Duke. — Peace ! — No fooling, idle woman ! 

Beneath th' attesting eye of Heaven I've sworn 
To love, to honor, cherish and protect you. 
No human power can part us. What remains, then? 
To fret, and worry and torment each other? 
Or, like a loving and a patient pair 
To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness 
With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment? — 
Now to your chamber — write what'er you please ; 
But pause before you stain the spotless paper, 
With words that may inflame, but cannot heal ! 

Juliana. — Why, what a patient worm you take me for ! 

Duke. — I took you for a wife ; and, ere I've done, 
I'll know you for a good one. 

Juliana. — You shall know me 

For a right woman, full of her own sex ; 
Who when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger, 
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns, 
By the proud reason of superior man, 
To be taught patience, when her swelling heart 
Cries out revenge ! (She goes oi/t.) 

Duke. — Why, let the flood rage on ! 

There is no tide in woman's wildest passion 
But hath an ebb.— I've broke the ice, however. — 
W r rite to her father ! — She may write a folio — 
Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely, 
A woman's honor is her safest guard, 

Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key. (Locks the door.) 
So, thus begins our honeymoon. — 'Tis well ! 
For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds, 
She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps 
Like April she may wear a changeful face 

toia 



IOO TAMING A WIFE. 

Of storm and sunshine : and when that is past 

She will break glorious as unclouded May. {He goes out.) 

Scene II. 

A room in the cottage, — A table and chat* . Enter the Duke, 
in peasant dress. He unlocks the door on the other 
side and holds the key in his hand. 
Duke. — She hath composed a letter \ and what's worse 

Contrived to send it by a village boy 

That passed the window. — Yet she now appears 

Profoundly penitent. It cannot be ; 

'Tis a conversion too miraculous. 

Her cold disdain yields with too free a spirit ; 

Like ice, which melted by unnatural heat — 

Not by the gradual and kindly thaw 

Of the resolving elements — give it air, 

Will straight congeal again — She comes — I'll try her. 

Enter Juliana in a Peasant's Dress, through door just 
unlocked. 
Why, what's the matter now? 

Juliana. — ■ That foolish letter ! 

Duke. — What ! You repent of having written it? 

Juliana. — I do indeed. I could cut off my fingers 
For being partners in the act. 

Duke. — No matter; 

You may indite one in a milder spirit, 
That shall pluck out its sting. 

Juliana. — I can — 

Duke. — You must. 

Juliana. — I can. 

Duke. — You shall. 

Juliana. — I will, if 'tis your pleasure. 

Duke. — Well replied. 



TAMING A WIFE. IOI 

I see now plainly you have found your wits, 
And are a sober metamorphosed woman. 

Juliana. — I am, indeed. 

Duke. — I know it ; I can read you. 

There is a true contrition in your looks : — 
Yours is no penitence in masquerade — 
You are not playing on me? 

Juliana.— Playing, sir. 

Duke. — You have found out the vanity of those things 
For which you lately sigh'd so deep? 

Juliana. — I have, sir. 

Duke. — A dukedom ! — Pshaw ! — It is an idle thing. 

Juliana. — I have begun to think so. 

Duke (aside). — That's a lie ! — 

Is not this tranquil and retired spot 
More rich in real pleasure than a palace? 

Juliana. — I like it infinitely. 

Duke (aside). — That's another !— 

The mansion's small, 'tis true, but very snug 

Juliana. — Exceeding snug ! 

Duke. — The furniture not splendid, 
But then all useful ! 

Juliana. — - . All exceeding useful ! 

{Aside.) There's not a piece on't but serves twenty purposes. 

Duke. — And though we're seldom plagued by visitors, 
We have the best of company — ourselves. 
Nor, whilst our limbs are full of active youth, 
Need we loll in a carriage to provoke 
A lazy circulation of the blood, (takes her ann and walks 

about) 
When walking is a nobler exercise. 

Juliana. — More wholesome too. 

Duke. — And far less dangerous. 



:02 TAMING A WIFE. 

Juliana. — That's certain ! 

Duke. — Then for servants, all agree, 

They are the greatest plagues on earth. 

Juliana. — No doubt on't ! 

Duke. — Who, then, that has a taste for happiness, 
Would live in a large mansion, only fit 
To be an habitation for the winds ; 
Keep gilded ornaments for dust and spiders ; 
See every body, care for nobody ; 
When they could live as we do ? 

Juliana. — Who, indeed? 

Duke. — Here we want nothing. 

Juliana. — Nothing ! — Yes, one thing. 

Duke.— Indeed ! What's that? 

Juliana. — You will be angry ! 

Duke. — Nay — 

Not if it be a reasonable thing. 

Juliana. — What wants the bird, who, from his wiry prison 
Sings to the passing traveller of air 
A wistful note — that she were with them, sir? 

Duke {aside). — Umph ! What, your liberty? I see it 

. now. 

We have been wedded yet a few short days — 
Let us wear out a month as man and wife ; 
If at the end on't, with uplifted hands, 
Morning and ev'ning, and sometimes at noon, 
And bended knees, you do not plead more warmly, 
Than e'er you prayed 'gainst stale virginity, 
To keep me for your husband 

Juliana. — If I do ! 



Duke. — Then let your will be done, that seeks to part us ! 
Juliana. — I do implore that you will let it stand 
Upon that footing ! — A month's soon past, and then — 



TAMING A WIFE. IO3 

I am your humble servant, sir. 

Duke. — Forever. 

Juliana. — Nay, I'll be hanged first. 

Duke. — That may do as well. 

Come, you'll think better on't ! 

Juliana. — By all 

Duke. — No swearing. 

Juliana. — No, no, — no swearing. 

Duke. — You have your liberty. {She goes out.) — 
(a/one) But I shall watch you closely, lady, 
And see that you abuse it not. (He goes out.) 

Scene III. 

The same room. Enter the Duke bringing in Juliana. 

Duke. — No resistance ! — For a month, at least, I am 
your husband. 

Juliana. — True ! — And what's a husband? 

Duke (puts her over to one side) . — Why, as some wives 
would metamorphose him, 
A very miserable ass, indeed ! 

Juliana. — True, there are many such. 

Duke. — And there are men, 

Whom not a swelling lip, or wrinkled brow, 

Or the loud rattle of a woman's tongue 

Or what's more hard to parry, the warm close 
Of lips, that from the inmost heart of man 
Plucks out his stern resolves — can move one jot 
From the determined purpose of his soul, 

Or stir an inch from his prerogative. 

Ere it be long, you'll dream of such a man. 

Juliana. — Where, waking, shall I see him? 

Duke. — Look on me ! 

Come, to your chamber ! 



104 TAMING A WIFE. 

Juliana. — I won't be confined ! 

Duke. — Won't ! — Say you so? 

Juliana {she relents) . — Well, then, I do request. 
You won't confine me. 

Duke. — You'll leave me ? 

Juliana. — No, indeed ! 

As there is truth in language, on my soul 
I will not leave you ! 

Duke. — You've deceived me once — 



Juliana. — And therefore, do not merit to be trusted 
I do confess it : — but, by all that's sacred, 
Give me my liberty, and I will be 
A patient, drudging, most obedient wife ! 

Duke. — Yes : but a grumbling one ? 

Juliana. — No ; on my honor, 

I will do all you ask, e'er you have said it. 

Duke. — And with no secret murmur of your spirit? 

Juliana. — With none, believe me ! 

Duke. — Have a care! 

For if I catch you on the wing again, 

I'll clip you closer than a garden hawk, {he holds up a key) 
And put you in a cage, where day-light comes not \ 
Where you may fret your pride against the bars, 
Until your heart break. {Knocking at the door.) See who's 
at the door ! — {She goes and opens it.) 

Enter Lopez. 
My neighbor Lopez ! — Welcome, sir ; {introducing her) my 

wife — 
{To Juliana,) A chair ! {She brings a chair to Lopez and 

throws it down.) Your pardon- — you'll excuse her, 

sir — 
A little awkward, but exceeding willing. 



TAMING A WIFE. 10$ 

One for your husband ! — (She brings another chair, and is 
going to throw it down as before ; but as the Duke 
looks steadfastly at her, she desists, and places it 
gently by him.) 
Pray be seated, neighbor ! 
(To her) Now you may serve yourself. 

Juliana. — I thank you, sir, 

I'd rather stand. 

Duke. — I'd rather you should sit. 

Juliana. — If you will have it so — (aside) — 'Would I were 
dead ! (She brings a chair, and sits down,) 

Duke. — Though now I think again, 'tis fit you stand, 
That you may be more free to serve our guest. 

Juliana. — Even as you command. (Rises.) 

Duke. — You will eat something? (To Lopez,) 

Lopez. — Not a morsel, thank ye. 

Duke. — Then you will drink ? — A glass of wine, at least ? 

Lopez. — Well, I am warm with walking, and care not if I 
do taste your liquor. 

Duke. — You have some wine, wife? 

Julla.na. — I must e'en submit ! (She goes out.) 

Duke. — This visit, sir, is kind and neighborly. 

Lopez. — I came to ask a favor of you. We have to-day 
a sort of merry-making on the green hard by — 'twere 
too much to call it a dance — and as you are a stranger 
here — 

Duke. — Your patience for a moment. 

Re-e?iter Juliana with a small pitcher of liquor. 
Duke (taking it). — What have we here? 
Jullana. — 'Tis wine — you called for wine ! 

Duke. — And did I bid you bring it in a nut-shell ? 
Lopez. — Nay, there is plenty I 



106 TAMING A WIFE. 

Duke. — I can't suffer it. 

You must excuse me. (To Lopez,) When friends drink 

with us, 
Tis usual, love, to bring it in a jug. 
Or else they may suspect we grudge our liquor. 
Juliana. — I shall remember. (She goes out.) 
Lopez. — I am ashamed to give so much trouble. 
Duke. — No trouble; she must learn her duty, sir; 
I'm only sorry you should be kept waiting. 

But you were speaking 

Lopez. — As I was saying, it being the conclusion of our 
vintage, we have assembled the lads and lasses of 
the village 

Re-enter Juliana. 

Duke. — Now we shall do ! 
Why, what the devil's this? 

Juliana. — Wine, sir. 

Duke. — This wine ? — 'Tis foul as ditch-water ! — 
Did you shake the cask? 

Juliana (aside). — What shall I say? Yes, sir. 

Duke. — You did? 

Juliana. — I did. 

Duke. — I thought so ! 
Why, do you think, my love, that wine is physic, 

That must be shook before 'tis swallowed? 

Come, try again ! 

Juliana. — I'll go no more ! (Puts down the wine on the 
ground.) 

Duke. — You won't? 

Juliana. — I won't ! 

Duke. — You won't? (He shows key.) 
You had forgot yourself, my love. 



TAMING A WIFE. 107 

Juliana. — Well, I obey ! {Takes up the wine, and goes 
out) 

Duke. — Was ever man so plagued ! 
I am ashamed to try your patience, sir ; 
But women, like our watches, must be set 
With care to make them go well. 

Enter Juliana, 

Ay, this looks well ! (He pours some out. 

Juliana. — The heavens be praised ! 

Duke. — Come, sir, your judgment? 

Lopez. — 'Tis excellent ! — But, as I was saying, to-day we 
have some country pastimes on the green. — Will it 
please you both to join our simple recreations? 

Duke. — We will attend you. Come, renew your draught, 



sir 



Lopez.: — We shall expect you presently ; till then, good 
even, sir ! 

Duke. — Good even, neighbor. {Lopez goes out.) Go 
and make you ready. 

Juliana. — I take no pleasure in these rural sports. 

Duke. — Then you shall go to please your husband. Hold ! 
I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you, 
To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder, 
And make men stare upon a piece of earth 
As on the star-wrought firmament — She's adorned 

Amply, that in her husband's eye looks lovely 

The truest mirror that an honest wife 
Can see her beauty in ! 

Juliana. — I shall observe, sir. 

Duke. — I should like to see you in the dress 
I last presented you. 

Juliana. — The blue one, sir? 



108 TAMING A WIFE. 

Duke. — No, love, the white. — Go modestly attired, 
An half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair, 
With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of ; 
No deeper rubies than compose thy lips, 
Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them, 
With the pure red and white, which that same hand 
Which blends the rainbow, mingles in thy cheeks : 
Thou'lt fix as much observance, as chaste dames 
Can meet without a blush. 

I'll trust her with these bumpkins. None save myself 
Shall buz his praises in her ear. {He goes out.) 

Scene IV. 

The cottage. Two chairs. Juliana sits at her needle. The 
Duke steals in behind. 

Duke. — Come, no more work to-night : {sits by her) it is 
the last 
That we shall spend beneath this humble roof. 
Our fleeting month of trial being past, 
To-morrow you are free. 

Juliana. — Nay, now you mock me, 

And turn my thoughts upon my former follies. 
You know that, to be mistress of the world, 
I would not leave you. 

Duke. — No? 

Juliana. — No, on my honor. 

Duke. — I think you like me better than you did : 
And yet 't is natural. Come, come, be honest ; 
You have a sort of hankering — no wild wish, 
No vehement desire — yet a slight longing, 
A simple preference, if you had your choice, 
To be a duchess, rather than a wife 
Of a low peasant ? 



TAMING A WIFE. IO9 

Juliana. — No, indeed : sometimes in my dreams, I own, — 
You know we cannot help our dreams ! — 

Duke. — What then ! 

Juliana. — Why, I confess, that sometimes, in my dreams, 
A noble house and splendid equipage, 
Diamonds and pearls, and gilded furniture, 
Will glitter, like an empty pageant, by me ; 
And then I am apt to rise a little feverish. 
But never do my sober waking thoughts, — 
As I'm a woman worthy of belief — 
Wander to such forbidden vanities. 
Yet, after all it was a scurvy trick — 
Your palace and your pictures, and your plate ; 
Your fine plantations, your delightful gardens, 
That were a second Paradise — for fools ; 
And then your grotto, so divinely cool ; 
Your Gothic summer-house, and Roman temple 
'Twould puzzle much an antiquarian 
To find out their remains. 

Duke. — No more of that ! 

Juliana. — You had a dozen spacious vineyards, too ; 
Alas ! The grapes are sour ; — and, above all, 
The Barbary courser that was breaking for me. 

Duke. — Nay, you shall ride him yet. 

Juliana. — Indeed ! 

Duke. — Believe me, 

We must forget these things. 

Juliana. — They are forgot ; {she rises and kisses Aim) 
And, by this kiss, we'll think of them no more, 
But when we want a theme to make us merry. 

Duke. — It was an honest one, and spoke thy soul ! 
And by the fresh lip and unsullied breath, 
W T hich joined to give it sweetness — 



HO TAMING A WIFE. 

Enter Balthazar in excitement 

Juliana (crosses) . — How ! My father ! 

Duke. — Signior Balthazar ! You are welcome, sir, 
To our poor habitation. 

Balthazar. — Welcome ! Villain, 

I come to call your dukeship to account, 
And to reclaim my daughter. (She stands between them.) 

Duke (aside). — You will find her 

Reclaimed already, or I have lost my pains. 

Balthazar. — Let me come at him ! 

Juliana. — Patience, my dear father ! 

Duke. — Nay, give him room. Put up your weapon, sir — 
'T is the worst argument a man can use ; 
So let it be the last. As for your daughter, 
She passes by another title here, 
In which your whole authority is sunk — 
My lawful wife. 

Balthazar. — Lawful ! — his lawful wife ! 
I shall go mad. Did not you basely steal her 
Under a vile pretense ? 

Duke. — What I have done 

I'll answer to the law. 
Of what do you complain ? 

Balthazar. — Why, are you not 

A most notorious, self-confessed impostor? 

Duke. — True ; I am somewhat dwindled from the state 
In which you lately knew me : nor alone 
Should my exceeding change provoke your wonder ; 
You'll find your daughter is not what she was. 

Balthazar. — How, Juliana ? 

Juliana. — 'T is, indeed, most true : 

I left you, sir, a froward, foolish girl, 
But I have learned this truth indelibly — 



TAMING A WIFE. Ill 

That modesty in deed, in word, and thought, 
Is the prime grace of woman ; and with that, 
More than with frowning looks and saucy speeches, 
She may persuade the man that rightly loves her. 

Balthazar. — Amazement ! Why, this metamorphosis 
Exceeds his own ! What spells, what cunning witch-craft 
Has he employed ? 

Juliana. — None : he has simply taught me 
To look into myself : impressed my heart, 
And made me see at length the thing I have been, 
And what I am, sir. 

Balthazar. — Are you then content 
To live with him ? 

Juliana. — Content? I am most happy ! 

Balthazar. — Can you forget your crying wrongs ? 

Juliana. — Not quite, sir; 

They sometimes serve to make us merry with. 

Balthazar. — How like a villain he abused your father? 

Juliana. — You will forgive him that, for my sake. 

Balthazar. — Never ! 

Duke. — Why, then 'tis plain you seek your own revenge, 
And not your daughter's happiness. 

Balthazar. — No matter. 

I charge you, on your duty as my daughter, 
Follow me ! 

Duke. — On a wife's obedience, 
I charge you, stir not ! 

Juliana. — You, sir, are my father ; 
At the bare mention of that hallowed name, 
A thousand recollections rise within me, 
To witness you have ever been a kind one : 
This is my husband, sir ! 

Balthazar. — Thy husband ; well 



112 TAMING A WIFE. 

Juliana. — 'Tis fruitless now to think upon the means 
He used — I am irrevocably his : 
And, by adoption, I am bound as strictly 
To do his reasonable bidding now, 
As once to follow yours. 

Duke (aside). — Most excellent ! 

Balthazar. — Yet I will be revenged ! 

Duke (to Balthazar). — You would have justice? 

Balthazar. — I will. 

Duke. — Then forthwith meet me at the duke's. 

Balthazar. — What pledge have I for your appearance 
there ? 

Duke. — Your daughter, sir. — (she protests) — Nay, go, my 
Juliana ! 
'Tis my request : — within an hour at farthest, 
I shall expect to see you at the palace. 

Balthazar. — Come, Juliana. — You shall find me there, sir. 

Duke. — Look not thus sad at parting, Juliana ; 
All will run smooth yet. 

Balthazar. — Come ! 

Juliana. — Heaven grant it may ! 

Duke. — The duke shall right us all, without delay. (Bal- 
thazar and Juliana go out on one side ; the Duke on 
the other.) 

Scene V. 

The Judgment hall of the Duke's Palace. A State Chair is 
placed on a raised platform. Enter Campillo, the 
Duke's Steward and Pedro. 
Pedro. — But can no one tell the meaning of the fancy? 
Campillo. — No : 'twas the Duke's pleasure, and that's 
enough for us. I found again to-day the writing which 
he sent. These were his words : 



TAMING A WIFE. 113 

"For reasons, that 1 shall here communicate, it is neces- 
sary that Jaqucz should, in all things, at present, act 
as my representative ; you will, therefore, command 
my household to obey him as myself, until you hear 
further froin 

(Signed) Aranza." 

Pedro. — Well, we must wait the upshot. But what think 
you of the way that Jaquez bears his new dignity? 

Campillo. — Like most men in whom sudden fortune 
combats against long established habit. {Laughing without?) 

Pedro. — That must be he. 

Campillo. — Stand aside and let us note him. {Pedro 
goes out with Campillo?) 

Enter Jaquez, dressed as the Duke, followed by six atten- 
dants, who struggle in vain to restraifi their laughter. 

Jaquez. — You ragamuffins, show your grinders again and 
I'll hang you like onions, fifty on a rope. — Here, I'll not 
have you round me. — Leave me, get out. I'll be alone. — 
{They go off) — I begin to find, by the strength of my nerves 
and the steadiness of my countenance that I was certainly 
intended for a great man. It will be rather awkward to 
resign ; but still the month is now quite gone and like other 
great men in office I will retire with a good grace, to avoid 
being turned out — as a well-bred dog always walks down 
stairs, when he sees preparations on foot for kicking him 
into the street. 

Enter Campillo hastily. 

Campillo. — Jaquez, the Duke is here and calls for you. 
Jaquez. — What, so quick ? {He scrambles out, followed 
by Campillo.) 



114 TAMING A WIFE. 

Enter Balthazar and Juliana, preceded by Pedro. 

Balthazar. — You'll tell his highness, I am waiting for him. 

Pedro. — What name? 

Balthazar. — No matter ; tell him an old man, 
Who has been basely plundered of his child, 
hvA has performed a weary pilgrimage 
In search of justice, hopes to find it here. 

Pedro. — I will deliver this. {Exit Pedro.) 

Balthazar. — And he shall right me ; 

Or I will make his dukedom ring so loud 
With my great wrongs, that — 

Juliana. — Pray, be patient, sir. 

Balthazar. — Where is your husband? 

Juliana. — He will come, no doubt. 

Enter Pedro. 

Balthazar. — What news, sir? 

Pedro. — The Duke will see you presently. 

Balthazar. — Tis well ! 
Has there been a man here to seek him lately? 

Pedro. — None, sir. 

Balthazar. — A tall, well-looking man enough, 
Though a rank knave, dressed in a peasant's garb? 

Pedro. — There has been no such person. 

Balthazar. — No, nor will be ! 

It was a trick to steal off quietly, 
And get the start of justice. He has reach'd, 
Ere this, the nearest sea-port, or inhabits 
One of his air-built castles. {Trumpets and Kettle-Drums.) 

Pedro. — Stand aside ! 

Enter the Duke, superbly dressed, preceded by Jaquez, and 
followed by attendants, and six Ladies. 

Duke. — Now, sir, your business with me ? 



TAMING A WIFE. 115 

Balthazar. — How ? 

Juliana. — Amazement ! 

Duke. — I hear you would have audience. 

Jaquez (aside). — Exactly my manner ! 

Balthazar. — Of the duke, sir ! 

Duke. — I am the duke. 

Balthazar. — The jest is somewhat stale, sir. 

Duke. — You'll find it true. 

Balthazar. — Indeed ! 

Jaquez (aside) . — Nobody doubted my authority. 

Juliana (aside). — Be still, my heart ! 

Balthazar. — I think you would not trifle with me now. — 

Duke. — I am the duke Aranza. 
And, what's my greater pride, this lady's husband \ {crosses 
to Juliana, takes her hand, and leads her forward) 
Whom, having honestly redeem'd my pledge, 
I thus take back again. You now must see 
The drift of what I have been lately acting, 
And what I am. And though, being a woman 
Giddy with youth and unrestrained fancy, 
The domineering spirit of her sex 
I have rebuked too sharply; yet 'twas done, 
As skilful surgeons cut beyond the wound, 
To make the cure complete. 

Balthazar. — You have done most wisely, 

And all my anger dies in speechless wonder. 

Jaquez (aside) . — So does all my greatness ! 

Duke. — What says my Juliana? 

Juliana. — I am lost, too, 

In admiration, sir ; my fearful thoughts 
Rise, on a trembling wing, to that rash height 
Whence, growing dizzy once, I fell to earth. 
Yet since your goodness, for the second time, 



1X6 TAMING A WIFE. 

Will lift me, though unworthy, to that pitch 

Of greatness, there to hold a constant flight, 

I will endeavor so to bear myself 

That in the world's eye, and my friends' observance — 

And, what's far dearer, your most precious judgment— 

I may not shame your dukedom. 

Duke. — Bravely spoken. 

Why, now you shall have rank and equipage — 
Servants, for you can now command yourself — 
Glorious apparel, not to swell your pride, 
But to give lustre to your modesty. 
All pleasures, all delights, that noble dames 
W T arm their chaste fancies with, in full abundance 
Shall flow upon you ; and, you too, shall ride 
That Barbary courser. — For a gentle wife 
Is still the sterling comfort of man's life ; 
To fools a torment, but a lasting boon 
To those who wisely keep their Honey-Moon. 

CURTAIN. 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 



CHARACTERS. 

Lou Dayton, a Chicago belle. 
Madge Dayton, her younger irrepressible sister. 
Dick Majendie, their cousin, who lives in London. 
Duchess of Diddlesex, a large, dignified lady, of great polite- 
ness and conventionality. 

Lady Fanny, her daughter, a silent young person. 

Lord Algernon Penryhn, her son, a still more silent young 

perso7i. 
A Footman. 

Situation. — Lady Fanny writes an invitation to Miss Lou 
Dayton and her sister Madge to dine at Diddlesex 
Castle. At the same time she writes to her sister-in- 
law, Sophie, to co??ie to the dinner and rescue her from 
Choctaw Princesses. By mistake the Daytons receive 
the letter intended for Sophie. 

So Lou and Madge plot to appear in Mexican cos- 
tume and to act like real prairie savages. They dress 
in brilliant colors — short skirts, bright sashes, black 
lace stockings, short scarlet jackets, showing white silk 
shirts. They carry a dagger and a pistol at the waist, 
and a large fan in the hand; and Madge has a short 
riding whip. On their heads ai-e light pieces of lace 
or gauze as mantillas. They always act ivith boldness 
and assurance. 

n7 



XlS THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Their cousin, Dick Majendie, at first objects to the 
scheme ; but finally relents and surprises his cousins by 
appea7'ing in his Mexican costume. He wears a wide 
sombrero, a buckskin suit, negligee shirt, red sash at 
waist, and carries a pistol and knife in his belt. 

Lord Algernon cai-ries a monocle, which he stares 
through in the most idiotic fashion. 

The dialogue takes place in London in the richly 
furnished drawing-room of Diddle sex Castle, 

Enter the Duchess, followed by Lord Algernon and Lady 
Fanny, all in full-dress. 

Lady Fanny {wearily). — I wish Sophie would come be- 
fore those Americans arrive. 

Duchess. — Have you sent word to her? 

Lady Fanny. — Yes ! I wrote to come to rescue me out 
of the hands of two Choctaw Princesses from the West. 

Duchess. — My dear, you must treat them with courtesy 
for the sake of your brother Howard. They entertained 
him in America, you know, for three months, and since he 
has gone to Norway every letter refers to their visit here. 

Lady Fanny. — Mamma, where do they come from? Is 
it Detroit, or Kalamazoo, or Chicago? 

Duchess {complacently). — I do not remember precisely 
which is their native village. 

Lady Fanny. — These veneered savages in Worth gowns 
are so uninteresting 

Enter Footman. 

Footman {advafices, bows). — Mr. Majendie. 

Enter Dick Majendie, with a swagger. He passes foot- 
man, bows low to the group, who look at him in sur- 
prise. 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 119 

Duchess {eying him through her glass). — Mr. — er — Mr. 
Majendie ! 

Lady Fanny. — Or one of Tussaud's wax works. 

Lord Algernon {staring hard through his monocle). — - 
By Jo\e ! 

Dick (bowing again). — Dick Majendie, as much at your 
service as ever, Duchess. I have merely returned to my 
natiYe costume. I saw my American cousins this morn- 
ing 

Lady Fanny (turning away). — Ah, that explains. 

Dick {turning quickly) . — I beg your pardon. You 
said 

Lady Fanny. — Nothing, Mr. Majendie. You are quite 
mistaken. 

Dick {he dozes and turns to Duchess). — Consider me, 
Duchess, as a victim to 

Enter Footman, with cards, which he hands to the Duchess 
with a bow. 

Duchess (she looks at them in horror, and hands them to 
Dick) . — How very extraordinary ! Perhaps you can ex- 
plain these — er — singular names, Mr. Majendie? 

Dick {reads aloud). — "Lightning Lou, nee Dayton; 
Mashing Madge, nee Dayton." 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove I 

Lady Fanny. — Doubtless another American peculiarity. 

Dick {aside). — Spiteful little creature ! {Aloud). Pre- 
cisely, as you say, another American custom. Perhaps we 
should not presume to have ways of our own ; but if you 
find us very barbarous, remember that we cannot all be 
born in England, you know. 

Lady Fanny (to her brother). — He never was so disagree- 
able before. It is all the doing of those intolerable Amer- 
ican cousins. I know it. 



120 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Footman {announces loudly) . — " Lightning Lou, nee 
Dayton; Mashing Madge, nee Dayton." 

Dick {coining down one side) . — Ye Gods ! 
Enter Lou and Madge. 

Lou (advancing, assured and condescending), — The 
Duchess of Diddlesex, I presume. So glad to meet you, 
and your sister. (Glances at Lady Fa?i?iy.) No, daughter, 
is it not? Though we hardly thought we could spare time 
to come to you. There is so much else that is really inter- 
resting. (Fans herself and stares hard.) 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Lady Fanny. — What savages ! 

Dick (laughing aside). — One for the Duchess. 

Madge (turns abruptly). — Walk light, there, Lou. Of 
course the Duchess knows how it is herself. But (to 
Duchess), as I told Lou, we had heard so much of you from 
Howard. 

Duchess. — Howard ? 

Madge. — Yes, Howard! He is your son, isn't he? 
Howard Diddlesex. And he talked so much about you and 
the old gentleman 

Duchess. — The old gentleman ! 

Dick (coming forward) . — My cousin means the duke, I 
fancy. (Lou and Madge look at Dick and start.) 

Lou (aside to him). — You are a dear good fellow ! 

Madge. — Your cousin, Dick Majendie, means, as she 
generally does, just about what she says. And as I was 
saying, Duchess, I told Lou we'd just chip right in, in a 
sociable way. So you needn't trot out your company ways 
for us. (Lou a?id Dick laugh aside.) 

Duchess. — Company ways ! Chip right in ! I do not 
quite follow. 



THE PRAIRIE PRIXCESSES. 12: 

Lou. — Oh, Duchess, you must pardon my little sister's 
school-girl slang ; she is only fourteen, you know. 

Lord Algernon {staring hard through his monocle). — 
By Jove ! 

Lady Faxxy. — Only fourteen ; nonsense ! 

Madge {giving a skip) . — Good-sized girl, ain't I ! {Lady 
Fanny turns disdainfully away. Dick draws Madge's arm 
protectingly through his.) 

Lou {fanning herself and eying Lord Algernon with 
marked courtesy). — Only fourteen, I assure you, Duchess, 
and, as you see, irrepressible. Indeed, that is why we 
came abroad, she had so many love affairs. 

Duchess {horror-struck). — So many love affairs ! A girl 
of fourteen ! Are such things possible in your country ? 

Lady Fanny {aside). — The East Indian savages marry 
at nine years of age. 

Madge. — You bet they are, Duchess. {Skips over to her 
side.) Why, ma and pa were regularly rattled. They cal- 
culated I was to marry Jack Peyton. So I was, only {she 
pokes the Duchess with her fan) ma said I might come over 
here, and pa promised me a diamond necklace that should 
lay all over Flossie Skegg's. — I mean her last one, that she 
does her marketing in. 

Duchess. — I do not comprehend. What is doing her 
marketing? 

Lou. — Why, ordering in the meat for dinner, and the 
garden sass, green things, milk, and eggs, you know. 
{Aside to Dick.) How was that, Dick? Madge out- 
shines me in this line. 

Lady Fanny. — And you order groceries and — truck — in 
diamonds? 

Madge {impatiently). — We order groceries in paper bags ; 
but we certainly wear our diamonds when we do it, if that 



122 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

is what you mean. No lady in Chicago would go shopping 
in less than $1,500 worth of diamonds. 

Lord Algernon. — Oh, by Jove ! 

Lou {turning sharply on him). — An excellent country foi 
penniless younger sons to marry in. 

Lady Fanny {aside). — Insolent creature ! 

Lord Algernon (struggles with a speech, opens his mouth, 
shuts it, says again) . — By Jove ! 

Duchess {courteously to Madge). — I noticed you were 
looking at that little copy of Michael Angelo's 

Madge. — Michael Angelo. Oh, yes, I know. He 
painted that portrait of E. P. Strong; you know, Lou, 
Strong, the pork-packer. 

Duchess. — Oh ! ah ! doubtless another person {Lou in- 
terrupts her by singing a refrain fro7?i some popular song. 
Duchess stops in marked manner ; draws herself up.) 

Lou {speaking over her shoulder) . — Excuse me, Duchess ; 
but, you see, we are untrammelled children of the West. 
Prairie Princesses, as it were. {She glances at Lady Fanny, 
who starts.) I am afraid we shock you. 

Duchess {courteously) . — Oh, not at all. But may I show 
you some of my paintings ! Here is a prairie scene that 
may interest you. 

Lou {skips up, hooks her arm within the Duchess 1 s) . — 
Prairie ! I should smile ! Just say prairie, and I am all 
there. You understand, a prairie gets me. {The Duchess 
conducts her very politely out. Dick and Lord Algernon 
converse at one side. Madge in the centre stands contem- 
plating Lady Fanny who is seated on the other side.) 

Madge. — Are you ill? 

Lady Fanny. — Certainly not. 

Madge. — Have you any broken bones? 

Lady Fanny {haughtily). — I do not understand you. 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 1 23 

Madge (swaggering about). — I daresay. You English 
are a sort of kitchen nation. You know all about eating, 
running country-houses, keeping weekly accounts, making 
rich marriages, and stamping on poor people. 

Dick (crossing), — For Heaven's sake, Madge 

Madge. — All right, Dick; it's not her fault, I know, if 
she was born an English girl. But do you always sit like 
this (imitates Lady Fanny's rigid pose) and look like this? 
(Jumps up.) Isn't there any girl in you? 

Dick (aside). — It's coming. There will be a pitched 
battle, and I, as the neutral party, shall be the victim, and 
taken away in sections. 

Lady Fanny. — Perhaps not, as you understand it. 

Madge. — But do you never snap your fingers, and jump, 
and run (suits action to word), and speak out and up, and 
go in for fun generally? (She dances about.) 

Lady Fanny (stiffly) . — I hope not. 

Madge. — She hopes not. (Laughs heartily.) She hopes 
she's a petrified fish. It's too much for me. You talk to 
her, Dick, until Lou comes back; she makes me tired. 
(Aside.) I really did not know I could be so rude and 
slangy. (She goes toward Lo?-d Alge?mon, while Dick 
crosses to Lady Fanny. The Duchess and Lou enter?) 

Lou (talking eagerly'). — Buffaloes ! buffaloes ! Why, they 
are as thick in Chicago as — let me see — as flies; aren't 
they, Dick? 

Dick. — What? Buffaloes in Oh ! ah? Yes, certainly. 

Quite so. (Madge becomes convulsed with laughter behind 
her fan.) 

Duchess. — I wonder you live where there are such 
dangers. 

Lou. — Dangers? Not at all. It's delightful. Chicago's 
no (with an effort) — no slouch of a city. 



124 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Madge {aside to Dick), — Poor Lou ! She finds it hard — 
the elegant Miss Dayton, noted for her perfect manners. 
I must go to the rescue. {To Duchess.) Delightful ! I 
should think so ! There is no fun in the world up to a 
buffalo hunt. We were on one just before we came here, 
Lou and I. 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Dick. — You confound me ! 

Madge {walking up and down, and slashing a little riding- 
whip she has taken from her belt). — Yes ; just before we 
sailed. We were at breakfast, seven o'clock I reckon — 
we have late breakfast at our house — when Will — er — {She 
hesitates?) 

Dick {aside to her). — Pajama will do. {Laughs?) 

Madge. — Will Pajama jumped in through the window, 
shouting, " Girls ! girls ! get your guns ! A Buffalo hunt ! 
Three hundred head of them at least, right outside the 
Palmer House ! " " Oh, you hire a hall ! " says Lou. {Lou 
and Dick laitgh together.) And he says, " Honest Injun ! 
See for yourself. The whole Stock Exchange is after them, 
half a dozen prayer-meetings, and every clerk in every shop 
that can beg, borrow, or steal a horse. Good time to say 
howdy to the folks." 

Lady Fanny. — Say what? 

Madge {whirling on her) . — Howdy, dear. We haven't 
time to drawl out, "How do you do? " {To Duchess.) As 
I was saying, Will said, " Get your lariats." As if we were 
ever without them. {Rushing to Dick.) Tell me quick, 
where do those dreadful cowboys carry their lariats? 

Dick. — Around their necks, dear. 

Madge. — We always wear our lariats around our necks 
at home. {Dick in quiet convulsions of laughter.) And it 
was one jump from the breakfast-table— whiz ! bang ! — out 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 



"5 



of the house. Ma screaming, " Girls, come back ! You'll 
get killed ! M Lou tore the door open ; I behind her on 
the run. There was Lightning, Lou's horse, and Pitchfire, 
my pony. We always keep them ready saddled, you know, 
in case we should feel like taking the town 

Duchess. — What is that? 

Lou. — Taking the town? Oh, when we feel bored, we 
ride up and down, half a dozen or so of us, giving the 
Comanche yell, and firing pistols now and then. (She 
waves her pistol in the air.) You've no idea how it wakes 
one up. 

Duchess {she starts back in horror) . — I should fancy it 
might. 



a buffalo hunt, 
just mad to be 
to our saddles, 



Madge. — Oh, but that isn't a patch on 
Imagine it ! Our horses are as fit as we, 
off, whinneying and pawing. One jump 
and we're off. Lou's hair falls down. On we go, up one 
street down another. Shrieks, cries, whoops, yells ! Every- 
one galloping like the wind, past Annie Dickson's, around 
church corner ; men cheering and shouting, and just ahead 
a great dark, heaving, bellowing mass — the buffaloes. Then 
Lightning and Pitchfire hump themselves, we whipping and 
screaming, just as mad as everyone else. {Here Lou begins 
to gesticulate, and Dick gives a shout, as though canied 
away by excitement ; both follow Madge's description with 
appropriate gestures.) Out goes the lariat 

Dick.— Hi! hi! Steady! 

Madge. — Straight as a shot, pliable as a rope ; turning, 
twisting, drawing, pulling, and he is down on his knees 
helpless, the biggest buffalo of the herd. That was my 
cast, and that is what / call living. 

Dick (aside). — Bravo, Madge ! You're a positive genius. 

Lady Fanny (aside). — For a Comanche — yes. 



126 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Lou. — Don't be startled, Duchess, my little sister is so 
impulsive ; but then we are all so excitable on the subject 
of — er — buffaloes ; they take the place of foxes with us, 
with the added zest of danger. Of course, very few girls 
make such a ten-strike as Madge ; and you bet pa is proud 
of it. He had the buffalo's horns cased in gold, tipped 
with sapphires, engraved with Madge's name, the date, etc., 
and hung up in the hall. 

Duchess. — And you mean to say these monsters are often 
seen in the very streets of Chicago? Where do they come 
from? 

Dick. — They come from St. Louis generally, a sort of 
suburb of Chicago. {Laughs to Lou,) That is the reason 
the girls go heeled. 

Duchess. — Heeled ! What is that ? 

Madge {tapping her weapons), — Armed, he means. Any 
time you are out shopping, you may see a hundred head of 
buffaloes tearing down the avenue, trampling everything 
flat before them. No stops for refreshments ; so it is well 
to be ready. 

Duchess. — Horrible ! And to think that Howard re- 
mained there three months ! 

Lou. — That is the reason all the nurses in Chicago are 
men ; no female could get a child out of the way in time. 
It is all a smart man can do to get the children safely to 
and from the City Playground, where they are obliged to 
play by law. 

Duchess. — Play by law? 

Madge. — Why, of course ; even our aldermen could not 
allow the little innocents to play about streets, door-steps, 
or gardens liable to be stamped by buffaloes at any mo- 
ment. (Dick goes off in a wild fit of laughter,) 



THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 1 27 

Duchess {severely). — I see no reason for mirth. (She 
shudders?) It must be a dreadful country. 

Lady Fanny. — It is strange Howard said nothing of this. 

Lou (innocently) . — Didn't he? That is odd indeed. 

Madge. — Oh, come off, Lou ! I'm dead tired of all this 
talking, and besides 

Lou. — Yes, of course ; we are expected to show up at 
Lady Monteith's. 

Duchess. — Lady Monteith's, young ladies, when you dine 
with me, and dinner is about to be announced? 

Madge (dropping her burlesque manner). — I am sure 
you will pardon us, Duchess, but we are savages, you know, 
and only eat bread and salt with our well-wishers, not to 
mention that we shall hardly have time to get into proper 
dinner-gowns and drive to Lady Monteith's. 

Duchess. — I do not comprehend you, Miss Dayton. 

Madge. — It is very simple, Duchess. You, or perhaps 
I should say your daughter, Lady Fanny, preferred some- 
thing in the Zulu or Choctaw style — prairie princesses, pure 
and simple, the genuine American a la Buffalo Bill — and 
we have been doing our best to enact the part. 

Lou. — While Lady Monteith only expects the veneered 
savage in the Worth gow r n. 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! 

Duchess (looking at Lady Fanny).— What is all this? I 
am bewildered ! 

Lou (liolding out Lady Fanny ' s note). — If any further 
explanation is needed, this note may supply it. (To 
Duchess?) It was written apparently by Lady Fanny, and 
by an unfortunate accident enclosed, instead of an invita- 
tion to dinner, in an envelope directed to me. 

Lady Fanny (snatches note), — Good gracious ! My note 
to Sophie ! 



128 THE PRAIRIE PRINCESSES. 

Duchess. — What will Howard say? {Both gins smile, 
and courtesy low to Duchess?) 

Dick {coming forward}. — Permit me also to say fare- 
well, Duchess. 

Lady Fanny. — But, Mr. Majendie, you dine with us. 

Dick {he takes off his sombrero and bows). — Pardon, my 
cousins. {Dick, Madge, and Lou retire backward to door?) 

Lord Algernon. — By Jove ! {He stares wildly about 
through his monocle. The Duchess extends her hand for 
the letter. The Americans at the door bow.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 



I. The Two Queens. 
II. Nehushta and Zoroaster. 
III. Priests and Pillagers. 



THE TWO QUEENS. 



Adapted from " Zoroaster," by F. Marion Crawford. 



CHARACTERS. 

Atossa, Queen of Persia — short, fair. 

Nehushta, a Hebrew Maiden, seco?id wife of Darius, King 

of Persia — tall and dark. 
Women and Slave Girls in attendance on the Queen. 

Situation. — Nehushta, the most beautiful woman in the 
world, has come to the court of Persia in company with 
her lover, Zoroaster, a captain of the guard. Queen 
Atossa, also beautiful but treacherous, conceives a 
violent passion for Zoroaster and therefore a deadly 
ha tredf or Nehushta. During the absence of 'Zoroaster 
from the court for a fortnight, Atossa leads Nehushta 
to believe that Zoroaster really loves herself and so 
Nehushta accepts the king's hand in marriage. The 
ceremony occurs the very day of Zoroaster's return. 
He is greatly shocked a?id immediately disappears, 

129 



I30 THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 

Three years later he returns as a priest — so changed as 
to startle Nehushta, who hurries to Atossa for explana- 
tions. 

Queen Atossa with her women and slave girls is 
just putting the finishing touches to her attire for the 
evening banquet, when Nehushta appears in the door- 
way behind her. Atossa hears her and rises suddenly \ 
overturning the chair on which she has been sitting. 
The chair is quickly righted by a slave. 
Atossa {in cool surprise) . — It is rarely indeed that the 
queen Nehushta deigns to visit her servant. Had she 
sent warning of her coming she would have been more fit- 
tingly received. 

Nehushta (after a short struggle to master her emotion). — 
We have small need of court formalities. I desire to speak 
with you alone upon a matter of importance. 

Atossa (seating herself and motioning to Nehushta to be 
seated). — I am alone. 

Nehushta (remaining standing) . — You are not alone. 
Atossa. — They are not women — they are slaves. 
Nehushta. — Will you send them away? 
Atossa. — Why should I? 

Nehushta. — You need not — I will. (Turning to the 
women.) Begone, and quickly ! (They scurry away after 
a moments hesitation.) 

Atossa (fiercely angry, tapping the floor with her foot — but 
speaking in a low voice) . Strange ways you have ! 

Nehushta. — I am not come here to wrangle with you 
about your slaves. They will obey me without wrangling. 
I met Zoroaster in the gardens an hour since. 

Atossa (sneeringly) . — By a previous arrangement, of 
course? (She fastens her eye on Nehushta with a strange 
and deadly look.) 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 131 

Nehushta (in a fierce low voice). — Hold your peace and 
listen to me. (She reaches for a small Indian knife in her 
girdle.) Tell me the truth. Did Zoroaster love you three 
years ago — when I saw you in his arms upon the terrace 
the morning when he came back from Ecbatana ? 

Atossa (always watching Nehushta closely). — I loved 
him. I love him yet, and I hate you more than I love him. 
Do you understand? 

Nehushta (half breathless with anger). — Speak — go on ! 

Atossa (slowly) . — I loved him, and I hated you. I hate 
you still. The letter I had from him was written to you — 
but it was brought to me. Nay — be not so angry, it was 
very long ago. Of course you can murder me, if you 
please — you have me in your power, and you are but a 
cowardly Jew, like twenty of my slave-women. I fear you 
not. Perhaps you would like to hear the end? (Nehushta 
has been slowly approaching Atossa until now Nehushta 
stands over her. Atossa suddenly seizes the dagger.) You 
shall hear the end now and you shall not murder me with 
your Indian poisoner here. (Laughs and looks at blade.) 
I was talking with Zoroaster when I saw you upon the 
stairs, and then — oh, it was so sweet ! I cried out that he 
should never leave me again, and I threw my arms about 
his neck — his lordly neck that you so loved ! — and I fell, 
so that he had to hold me up. And you saw him. Oh, it 
was sweet ! It was the sweetest moment of my life when 
I heard you groan and hurry away and leave us ! It was to 
hurt you that I did it — that I humbled my queenliness 
before him : but I loved him ; though — and he, he your 
lover,, whom you despised then and cast away for this black- 
faced king of ours — he thrust me from him, and pushed 
me off, and drove me weeping to my chamber ; and he 
said he loved me not, nor wished my love. Ay, that was 



132 THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 

bitter, for I was ashamed — I who never was ashamed of man 
or woman. But there was more sweetness in your torment 
than bitterness in my shame. He never knew you were 
there. He never knew why you left him — he thought it 
was to wear the king's purple, to thrust a bit of gold in your 
hair ! He must have suffered — you have suffered too — 
such delicious torture, I have often soothed myself to sleep 
with the thought of it. It is very sweet for me to see you 
lying there with my wound in your heart. It will rankle long ; 
you cannot get it out — you are married to the king now, and 
Zoroaster has turned priest for love of you. I think even 
the king would hardly love you if he could see you now — 
you look so pale. I will send for the Chaldaean phy- 
sician — you might die. I should be sorry if you died, 
you could not suffer any more then. I could not give up 
the pleasure of hurting you — you have no idea how delicious 
it is. Oh, how I hate you ! ( With these last words Atossa 
rises to her feet, Nehushta, in dumb horror has shrunk back 
until she leans against the door grasping the curtain with 
one hand and pressing her heart with the other,) Shall I 
tell you more ? Should you like to hear more of the truth ? 
I could tell you the king — {Nehushta throws up her hands 
and presses her temples, and with a low wail flees through the 
doorway and the curtains close behind her.) She will tell 
the king, I care not — but I will keep the knife. 

CURTAIN. 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 



II.— NEHUSHTA AND ZOROASTER. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nehushta, Queen of Persia. 

Zoroaster, High Priest of Persia, tall, majestic, dressed in 
priestly robes, with long white hair and beard. 

Two slave women, attendants on the Queen. 

Situation. — Nehushta, dressed in flowing robes with her 
beautiful, black hair falling over shoulders, and with a 
light tiara on her head, goes to a secluded spot in the 
garden to hold an interview with Zoroaster, in order 
to ascertain if he loves her as he once did. Zoroaster 
has the calm and majesty of another world in his bear- 
ing and voice. He has risen above earthly loves. 

Nehushta enters, preceded by a slave woman who arranges 
a soft seat for her and then stands one side. Another 
slave carries a large fan which she waves over her 
?nis tress. Nehushta hesitates in thought and then turns 
to the first attendant. 

Nehushta. — Go thou and seek out the high priest Zor- 
oaster, and bring him hither quickly. {The woman hurries 
away and Nehushta sinks dozvn o?i the chair with a weary 
look of weakness. The slave returns and pauses at the door- 
way while Zoroaster enters, approaches slowly and makes a 
deep obeisance.) Forgive me that I sent for thee, Zoroaster. 

133 



134 THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 

Forgive me — I have something to say which thou must 
hear. {He stands looking at her silently but earnestly*} I 
wronged thee three years ago, Zoroaster. {She looks up at 
him.) I pray thee, forgive me I knew not what I did. 

Zoroaster. — I forgave thee long ago. 

Nehushta. — I did thee a bitter wrong — but the wrong I 
did myself was even greater. I never knew till I went and 
asked — her / {Her eyes flash and her fingers clench ; then 
in an instant, her sad, weary look returns.) That is all — 
if you forgive me. {She turns her head away.) 

Zoroaster. — Now, by Ahura Mazda, I have indeed for- 
given thee. The blessing of the All-Wise be upon thee ! 
{He be?ids again and then turns away.) 

Nehushta (as she hears him step) . — You loved me once. 

Zoroaster. — Ay — I loved you once — but not now. There 
is no more love in the earth for me. But I bless you for 
the love you gave me. 

Nehushta. — I loved you so well — {She suddenly rises and 
gazes at him with a wild, passionate look.) I love you still. 
Oh ! I love you still ! I thought I had put you away — for- 
gotten you — trodden out your memory, that I so hated I 
could not bear to hear your name ! Ah ! why did I do it, 
miserable woman that I am ! I love you now — I love you — 

I love you with my whole heart and it is too late ! {She 

sinks back into her chair, covering her face with her hands 
and sobbing passionately.) 

Zoroaster {He stands a moment calm and sorrowful, 
gazing on her as from another world). — Nehushta, it is not 
meet that you should thus weep for anything that is past. 
Be comforted ; the years of life are few, and you are one of 
the great ones of the earth. It is needful that all should 
suffer. Forget not that although your heart be heavy, you 
are a queen, and must bear yourself as a queen. Take 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 1 35 

your life strongly in your hands and live it. The end is not 
far and your peace is at hand. 

Nehushta (looking up suddenly at these last words and 
sighing heavily) . — You, who are a priest and a prophet, — 
you who read the heaven as it were a book — tell me, Zo- 
roaster, is it not far? Shall we meet beyond the stars, as 
you used to tell me so long ago? 

Zoroaster {with a gentle smile). — It is not far. Take 
courage — for truly it is not far. (He gazes earnestly into 
her eyes for a moment, then turns and goes away. A look 
of peaee descends on her tired face ; she falls backward in 
her chair as her slave women come up, and she closes her 
eyes.) 

CURTAIN. 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 



III.— THE PRIESTS AND THE PILLAGERS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Nehushta, as before. 

Zoroaster, as before. 

A Maiden, a little Syrian slave, attendant on Nehushta. 

A group of Priests of Persia. 

A mob of Pillagers. 

Situation. — Darius the king is absent from the capital A 
troop of wild eastern riders swoop doivn from the hills 
on the city. Nehushta tries to give the alarm to Zo- 
roaster and thus save her beloved. This scene is their 
meeting. 

Zoroaster is standing behind the altar, on which is 
burning a small flame. The priests stand round in 
ranks chanting in a low tone. Nehushta suddenly 
bursts in with the report that the city is assaulted. 

The cicrtain rises tipon the Priests before the altar, with 
Zoroaster behind it, chanting. 

Priests. — Praise we the All- Wise God, who hath made 
and created the years and the ages ; 

Praise him who in the heavens hath sown and hath scat- 
tered the seed of the stars ; 

136 



THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 1 37 

Praise him who moves between the three ages that are 
and that have been, and shall be ; 

Praise him who rides on death, in whose hand are all 
power and honor and glory ; 

Praise him {Nehushta enters^) 

Nehushta {rushing forward and laying one hand on 
Zoroastei^s shoulder). — Zoroaster — fly — there is yet time. 
The enemy are come in thousands — they are in the palace. 
There is barely time ! 

Zoroaster {taking her hand from his shoulder) . — Go 
thou, and save thyself. I will not go. If it be the will of 
the All- Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar. 
Go thou quickly, and save thyself while there is yet time. 

Nehushta {taking his hand in hers and looki?ig very 
lovingly and sadly into his calm eyes). — Knowest thou not, 
Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than live with 
any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I 
will not leave thee. 

Enter Syrian Maid, rtinning, but stopped by the crowd of 

Priests. 

Syrian Maid. — There is no more time ! There is no 
more time ! Ye are all dead men ! Behold, they are break- 
ing down the doors ! {Sounds of blows from without are 
heard. Some of the priests start towards the door but are 
stopped by the maid.) Ye are dead men and there is no 
salvation — ye must die like men. Let me go to my mistress. 
{She p ush es th ro ugh th em.) 

Nehushta {staring wildly tipon the priests) . — Can none 
of you save him? 

A Priest. — We will save him and thee if we are able. 
We will take you between us and open the doors, and it 
may be that we can fight our way out — though we are all 
slain, he may be saved. {He lays hold of Zoroaster.) 



I38 THE SUFFERING OF NEHUSHTA. 

Zoroaster {putting him back gently), — Ye cannot save 
me, for my hour is come. (He seems transfigured.) The 
foe are as a thousand men against one. Here we must die 
like men, and like priests of the Lord before His altar. 
Now therefore I beseech you to think not of this death 
which we must suffer in our mortal bodies, but to open your 
eyes to the things which are not mortal and which perish 
not eternally. For man is but a frail and changing creature. 
His life is not longer than the lives of other created things, 
and he is delicate and sickly and exposed to manifold 
dangers from his birth. But the soul of man dieth not, 
neither is there any taint of death in it, but it live th for ever 
and is made glorious above the stars. For the stars also 
shall have an end, and the earth — even as our bodies must 
end this night ; but our souls shall see the glory of God, the 
All-Wise, and shall live. The morning cometh, after which 

there shall be no evening. (There is a crash without 

and discordant yells, then silence.) 

Nehushta (her head f oJls forward 071 Zoroaster' 's breast ; 
her arms clasp him wildly, as his clasp her). — Oh, Zoroaster, 
my beloved, my beloved ! Say not any more that I am un- 
faithful, for I have been faithful even unto death, and I 
shall be with you beyond the stars for ever ! 

Zoroaster. — Beyond the stars and forever ! In the 
light of the glory of God most high ! (The besiegers rush 
in.) 

TABLEAU. 
CURTAIN. 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING! 



Adapted from a short story, by Robert Barr, entitled " Gentlemen, the King! 



CHARACTERS. 

Rudolph, king of Allinia, tall, commanding, honest-looking, 
with hair turning gray. 

Staumm, a count, tall, gatint, erect, — owner of the lodge. 

Brunfels, a baron, obstinate, rough, outspoken, and brave. 

Steinmetz, ex-chancellor, crafty, fox-like, cowardly. 

Seven other lords of the realm. 

Situation. — In a rough hunting-lodge in the wilderness, 
twelve leagues from the capital of Alluria are ten men 
gathe?-ed in groups round a large oaken table. The 
7'0077i is lighted by blazing logs which fill an enormous 
fi7'e-place 071 one side of the room. On the opposite 
side is a barrel of wine. Numerous flagons a7'e 071 
the table, and on a shelf at the side are 7no7'e flagons 
a7id S077ie dice boxes. 

These 77ie7i a7-e the 7iobles of the realm, and a7'e met 
071 this exceedingly te77ipestuous night to discuss the 
7'C7noval of the king. 

The rising curtain discove7's eight 7?ien in various g7vups 
about the table, talking seriously amid their flagons. 

139 



140 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

Count Staumm is standing at the end of the table watch- 
ing the others. Another lord is drawing a flagon of 
wine from the barrel in the corner. 

Brunfels {bringing his huge fist down on the table, speak- 
ing in a loud, rough lo?ie). — I tell you, I will not have the 
king killed. Such a proposal goes beyond what was in- 
tended when we banded ourselves together. The king is a 
fool, so let him escape like a fool. I am a conspirator, but 
not an assassin. 

Steinmetz (suavely, as if to calm the boisterous spirit of 
Brunfels}. — It is not assassination, but justice. 

Brunfels {contemptuously). — Justice ! You have learned 
that cant word in the cabinet of the king himself, before he 
thrust you out. He eternally prates of justice ; yet, much 
as I loathe him, I have no wish to compass his death. 

Steinmetz {in a calm, argumentative tojie). — If the king 
escapes he will take up his abode in a neighboring territory, 
and there will inevitably follow plots and counter-plots for 
his restoration ; thus Alluria will be kept in a constant state 
of turmoil. There will doubtless grow up within the king- 
dom itself a party sworn to his restoration. We shall thus 
be involved in difficulties at home and abroad, and all for 
what? Merely to save the life of a man who is an enemy 
to each of us. We place thousands of life in jeopardy ; 
render our own positions insecure ; bring continual disquiet 
upon the state, when all might be avoided by the slitting 
of one throat, even though that throat belong to the king. 
{All look convinced except Baron Bi'iinfels who sets down 
his flagon with a thump on the table as if to reply.} 

Staumm {concilia tingly). — Argument is ever the enemy of 
good comradeship. Let us settle the point at once, and 
finally with the dice-box. Baron Brunfels, you are too 
seasoned a gambler to object to such a mode of terminating 



GENTLEMEN, IIii: KING ! 141 

a discussion. Steinmetz, the law, of which you ai 

distinguished a representative, is often compared to a lot- 
tery ; so you cannot look with disfavor upon a method that 
is as conclusive and as reasonably fair as the average deci- 
sion of a judge. Let us throw, therefore, for the life of the 
king. I, as chairman of this meeting, will be umpire. 
Single throws, and the highest number wins. Baron Brun- 
fels, you will act for the king, and if you win may bestow 
upon the monarch his life. Chancellor Steinmetz stands 
for the state. If he wins, then is the king's life forfeit. 
Gentlemen, are you agreed ? 

All {but Brunfels). — Agreed, agreed ! {Brunfels mutters 
under his breath until the dice-box is brought from the shelf, 
Steinmetz takes the box and is shaking it, as three stout raps 
are given on the door from without, apparently with the 
hilt of a sword. All start to their feet. The knocking is 
repeated.} 

King (outside) . — Open, I beg of you. 

Staumm {approaching the door stealthily). — Who is there? 

King {still without) . — A wayfarer, wear}- and wet, who 
seeks shelter from the storm. 

Staumm. — My house is already filled. I have no room 
for another. 

King {with a tone of decision). — Open the door peace- 
fully, and do not put me to the necessity of forcing it. 
{All recognize the voice and turn pale. Steinmetz rises to 
his feet with terror-stricken face and chattering teeth. 
Staumm looks over his shoulder as if to ask what he is to do.) 

Brunfels {hissing in low tone) . — In the fiend's name, if 
you are so frightened when it comes to a knock at the 
door, what will it be when the real knocks are upon you? 
Open, Count, and let the insistent stranger in. Whether 
he leave the place alive or no, there are ten men here to 



142 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

answer. (Staumm unbars the door. Enter the King 
wrapped in a dark cloak dripping wet. The door is barred 
again. After a moment's pause, the stranger flings off his 
cloak and hat The conspirators all now recognize him and 
are struck speechless. He looks round the group slowly and 
then speaks firmly.) 

King. — Gentlemen, I give you good evening; and if 
Count Staumm will act as cup-bearer, we will drown all 
remembrance of a barred door in a flagon of wine ; for to 
tell the truth, gentlemen, I have ridden hard in order to 
have the pleasure of drinking with you. (He casts a glance 
of piercing intensity upon the company, and more than one 
quails before it. Staumm takes a flagon from the shelf 
fills it at the barrel and presents it to the king with a low 
bow. The king holds it aloft.) Gentlemen, I give you a 
suitable toast. May none here gathered encounter a more 
pitiless storm than that which is raging without. (All are 
standing as the toast is announced^) I ask you to be 
seated. (He waves his hand. All sit but Brunfels. All 
fear that he will tell the king the object of the meeting.) My 
Lord of Brunfels (the king smiles), I see that I have inter- 
rupted you at your old pleasure of dicing. While request- 
ing you to continue your game as though I had not joined 
you, may I venture to hope the stakes you play for are not 
high? 

Brunfels (with a frown and a growl). — Your Majesty, 
the stakes are the highest that a gambler may play for. 

King. — You tempt me, Baron, to guess that the hazard 
is a man's soul ; but I see that your adversary is my worthy 
ex-chancellor, and as I should hesitate to impute to him 
the character of the devil, I am led to the conclusion that 
you play for a human life. Whose life is in the cast, my 
Lord of Brunfels ? 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 1 43 

Steinmetz {rising with indecision to his feet and speaking 
until a trembling voice) . — I beg your gracious permission to 
explain the reason of our gathering 

King {sternly). — Herr Steinmetz, when 1 desire your in- 
terference I shall call for it; and remember this, Herr 
Steinmetz, the man who begins a game must play it to the 
end, even though he finds luck running against him. 
{Steinmetz sits down and mops his brow.) 

Brunfels {defiantly). — Your Majesty, I speak not for 
my comrades, but for myself. I begin no game I am afraid 
to finish. We were about to dice in order to discover 
whether your Majesty should live or die. {A moan arises 
from the conspirators^) 

King {smiling again). — Baron, I have ever chided my- 
self for loving you. Even when your overbearing, obstinate 
intolerance compelled me to dismiss you from the com- 
mand of my army, I could not but admire your sturdy 
honesty. Had I been able to graft your love of truth upon 
some of my councillors what a valuable group of advisers I 
might have gathered round me ! — Enough of comedy, now 
tragedy sets in. Why am I here ? Why do two hundred 
mounted and armed men surround this doomed chalet? 
Miserable wretches, what have you to say that judgment be 
not instantly passed upon you? 

Brunfels {draws his sword and rushes on the king), — I 
have this to say, that whatever may befall this assemblage, 
you at least shall not live to boast of it. 

King {he stands unmoved at motions of Brunfels whom 
Stau mm and others seize). — My Lord of Brunfels, sheath 
your sword. Your ancestors have often drawn it, but always 
for, and never against the occupant of the throne. Now, 
gentlemen, hear my decision, and abide faithfully by it. 
Seat yourselves at the table, five on each side, the dice-box 



144 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

between you. You shall not be disappointed, but shall play 
out the game of life and death. Each dices with his oppo- 
site. He who throws the highest number escapes. He 
who throws the lowest, places his weapons on the empty 
chair and stands against yonder wall to be executed for 
the traitor that he is. Thus half of your company shall 
live, and the other half shall seek death with such courage 
as may be granted them. Do you agree or shall I give the 
signal ? 

All {except Brunfels, who still stands). — Agreed ! 

King. — Come, Baron, you and my devoted ex-chancellor 
were about to play when I came in. Begin the game. 

Brunfels {sits down). — Very well. Steinmetz the dice- 
box is near your hand ; throw. {Some one gathers dice, 
puts them in the box and hands it to Steinmetz, whose hand 
trembles so that he has no need to shake it The dice roll 
out on the table.) 

Any or All {looking at dice) . — Eight in all. 

King. — Eight ! Now, Baron. 

Brunfels {carelessly throwing the dice into the box and 
then playing.) — Three sixes ! If I only had such luck when 
I played for money ! 

Steinmetz {his eyes bulge out from fear). — We have three 
throws. 

King. — Not so. 

Steinmetz {springing from his chair). — I swear I under- 
stood that we were to have three chances. But it is all 
illegal, and not to be borne. I will not have my life diced 
away to please either kings or commons. {He draws his 
sword and stands in an attitude of defense?) 

King. — Seize him; disarm him, and bind him. There 
are enough gentlemen in this company to see that the rules 
of the game are adhered to. {Steinmetz is speedily over- 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 1 45 

powered, bound, and placed against the wall, where his 
writhing grows more and more intense.) Count Staumm 
it is now your turn to take the box. 

Staumm {lie solemnly throws the dice). — Six ! {His op- 
ponent tli rows and his zieighbors call out, "sixteen") Six- 
teen ! {He rises, bozos to the king and then to the com- 
pany, draws his sword, breaks it over his knee and takes 
his place at the w a 11.) 

King. — Gentlemen, proceed. 

First Gentleman {after shaking) . — Eleven ! 

Opponent. — Nine ! {He rises, draws his sword, leaves 
it on his chair and takes his place, after bowing to king.) 

Second Gentleman. — Eleven ! {He looks anxious.) 

Opponent. — Fourteen ! {Second Gentleman lakes his 
place as the others have.) 

Third Gentleman. — Five ! 

Opponent. — Twelve ! {Third Gentlema?i takes his place, 
while the king sadly looks over the line.) 

Brunfels {shifting uneasily i?i his seat and looking at his 
sentenced comrades). — Your Majesty, I am always loath to 
see a coward die. The whimperings of your former chan- 
cellor annoy me ; therefore will I gladly take his place and 
give to him the life and liberty you perhaps design for me, 
if in exchange I have the privilege of speaking my mind 
regarding you and your precious kingship. 

King. — Unbind the valiant Steinmetz. — Speak your mind 
freely, Baron Brunfels. 

Brunfels {he rises, draws his sword and places it on the 
table). — Your Majesty, backed by brute force, has con- 
demned to death five of your subjects. {He points to the 
five by the wall.) You have branded us as traitors, and 
such we are, and so find no fault with your sentence. You 
for the time being have the upper hand. You have re- 



146 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

minded me that my ancestors fought for yours and they 
never turned their swords against their sovereign. Why, 
then have our swords been pointed toward your breast? 
Because, King Rudolph, you are yourself a traitor. You 
belong to the ruling class, and have turned your back upon 
your order. You, a king, have made yourself a brother to 
the demagogue on the street corner. You have shorn 
nobility of its privileges, and for what? 

King. — And for what ? For this : that the plowman on 
the plain may reap what he has sown ; that the shepherd on 
the hillside may enjoy the increase which comes to his flock ; 
that taxation may be light ; that peace and security shall rest 
on the land ; that bloodthirsty swashbucklers shall not go up 
and down, inciting the people to carnage and rapine under 
the name of patriotism ; that the kingdom of Alluria may live 
in amity with its neighbors, attending to its own affairs and 
meddling not with the concerns of others. This is the task 
I set myself when I came to the throne. What fault have 
you to find with the program, my Lord Baron? 

Brunfels {calmly). — The simple fault that it is the 
program of a fool. In following it you have gained the 
resentment of your nobles and have not even received the 
thanks of those pitiable hinds, the plowmen in the valley, 
or the shepherds on the hills. You are hated in cot and 
castle alike. You would not stand in your place for a mo- 
ment, were not an army behind you. Being a fool, you 
think the common people like honesty, whereas they only 
curse that they have not a share in the thieving. 

King {soberly). — The people have been misled. Had 
it been possible for me personally to explain to them the 
good that must accrue to the land where honesty rules, I 
am confident I would have had their united and undivided 
support, even though my nobles deserted me. 



GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 1 47 

Brunfels. — Not so, your Majesty \ they would listen to 
you and cheer you, but when the next orator came among 
them, promising to divide the moon and give a share to 
each, they would gather round his banner and hoot you 
from the kingdom. What care they for rectitude of govern- 
ment? They see no farther than the shining florin that 
glitters on their palm. They shrug their shoulders when 
your honesty is mentioned. And now, Rudolph of Alluria, 
I have done, and I go the more jauntily to my death that 
I have had fair speech with you before the end. 

King (he has been gazing on the floor, and now sighs, 
and looks at them sorrowfully) . — I thought until to-night 
that I possessed some qualities at least of a ruler of men. 
I came here alone among you, and although there are brave 
men in this company, yet I had the ordering of events as I 
chose to order them, notwithstanding that odds stood ten 
to one against me. I have now to inform you that the in- 
surrection so carefully prepared has broken prematurely 
out. My capital is in possession of factions, who are in- 
dustriously cutting each other's throats to settle which one 
of two smooth-tongued rascals shall be their president. 
While you were dicing to settle the fate of an already de- 
posed king, and I was sentencing you to a mythical death, 
we were all alike being involved in common ruin. I have 
no horsemen at my back, and have stumbled here blindly, 
a much bedraggled fugitive, having lost my way in every 
sense of the phrase. And so I beg of the hospitality of 
Count Staumm another flagon of wine, and either a place 
of shelter for my patient horse, left too long in the storm 
without, or else direction towards the frontier, whereupon 
my horse and I will set out to find it. 

Brunfels {seizes his sword and holds it aloft). — Not 
towards the frontier, but towards the capital ! We will 



I48 GENTLEMEN, THE KING ! 

surround you, and hew for you a way through that fickle 
mob back to the throne of your ancestors. 

All {each man springs f 07' his weapon and brandishes it 
overhead). — The king ! the king ! 

King {smiling). — Not so. I leave a thankless throne 
with a joy I find it impossible to express. I am filled with 
amazement that men will actually fight for the position of 
ruler of the people. Whether the insurrection has brought 
freedom to themselves or not, the future will alone tell ; 
but it has at least brought freedom to me. I now belong 
to myself. No man can question either my motives or my 
acts. Gentlemen, drink with me to the new president of 
Alluria, whoever he may be. {The king drinks alone.) 

Brunfels {raising his glass). — Gentlemen, the King! 

All {raising high their glasses, while the king bows his 
head in solemn acknowledgement) . — The king ! 

CURTAIN. 



BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 



Adapted from " Ben-Hur," by Lew Wallace, 



CHARACTERS. 

Iras, a beautiful Egyptian woman. 

Ben-Hur, a very powerfully built young Jew. 

Situation. — Iras and he r aged father have been for some 
days the guests of Ben-Hur, whom the personal charms 
#/Iras have completely captivated. She is really in 
love with Messala, a hated rival of Ben-Hur in the 
great chariot-race at Antioch, and has been spying out 
the secrets of Ben-Hur's life for the use of Messala, 
who, in losing the chariot-race, lost an immense sum 
of money to Ben-Hur. 

Ben-Hur is in the room. Enter Iras. 

Iras {sharply). — Your coming is timely, O son of Hur, 
I wish to thank you for hospitality ; after to-morrow I shall 
not have the opportunity to do so. {Ben-Hur bows slightly?) 
When the game is over, the dice-players refer to their tablets 
and put a crown upon the happy winner. We have had a 
game — it has lasted through many days and nights. Why, 
now that it is at an end, shall we not see to which the 
chaplet belongs ? 

Ben-Hur {lightly). — A man may not balk a woman bent 
on having her way. 

149 



150 BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

Iras. — Tell me, O prince of Jerusalem, where is he, that 
son of the carpenter of Nazareth, and son not less of God, 
from whom so lately such mighty things were expected? 

Ben-Hur {impatiently). — I am not his keeper. 

Iras (with a sneer). — Has he broken Rome to pieces? 
(Ben-Hur raises his hand angrily to stop her.) Where has 
he seated his capital? Cannot I go see his throne and its 
lions of bronze? And his palace — he raised the dead; 
and to such a one, what is it to raise a golden house? He 
has but to stamp his foot and say the word and the house 
is pillared like Karnak, and wanting nothing. 

Ben-Hur (in good humoi^). — O Egypt, let us wait an- 
other day, even another week for him, the lions and the 
palace. 

Iras (without noticing the interruption). — And how is 
it I see you in that garb ? Such is not the habit of govern- 
ors in India or vice-kings elsewhere. I saw the satrap of 
Teheran once and he wore a turban of silk and a cloak of 
cloth of gold, and the hilt and scabbard of his sword made 
me dizzy with their splendor of precious stones. I thought 
Osiris had lent him a glory from the sun. I fear you have 
not entered upon your kingdom — the kingdom I was to 
share with you. 

Ben-Hur (courteously). — The daughter of my wise guest 
is kinder than she imagines herself ; she is teaching me 
that Isis may kiss a heart without making it better. 

Iras. — For a Jew, the son of Hur is clever. I saw your 
dreaming Caesar make his entry into Jerusalem. I beheld 
the procession descend the mountain bringing him. I 
heard their singing. I looked everywhere among them for 
a figure with a promise of royalty — a horseman in purple, a 
chariot with a driver in shining brass, a stately warrior be- 
hind an orbed shield, rivalling his spear in stature. I looked 



BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 151 

for his guard. It would have been pleasant to have seen a 
prince of Jerusalem and a cohort of the legions of Galilee. 
( With a look of disdain she laughs heartily.} I did not 
laugh. I said to myself, " Wait. In the Temple he will 
glorify himself as becomes a hero about to take possession 
of the world." I saw him enter the Gate of Shushan and 
the Court of the Women. I saw him stop and stand before 
the Gate Beautiful. There were people with me on the 
porch and in the courts. I will say a million of people all 
waiting breathlessly to hear his proclamation. The pillars 
were not more still than we. Ha, ha, ha ! I fancied I 
heard the axles of the mighty Roman machine begin to 
crack. Ha, ha, ha ! O prince, by the soul of Solomon, 
your King of the World drew his gown about him and 
walked away, and out by the farthest gate, nor opened his 
mouth to say a word ; and — the Roman machine is running 
yet! 

Ben-Hur {bows his head during the last part of this long 
speech and then answers with dignity}. — Daughter of Bal- 
thasar, if this be the game of which you spoke to me, take 
the chaplet — I accord it yours. Only let us make an end 
of words. That you have a purpose, I am sure. To it, I 
pray, and I will answer you ; then let us go our several 
ways and forget we ever met. Say on ; I will listen, but 
not to more of that which you have given me. 

Iras {after scanning him carefully from head to foot for 
a moment), — You have my leave — go. 

Ben-Hur. — Peace to you. {He walks away.) 

Iras {as he is passing out the door). — A word. (Ben- 
Hur stops and looks back.) Consider all I know about 
you. 

Ben-Hur (returns). — O most fair Egyptian, what all do 
you know about me ? 



152 BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

Iras (absently), — You are more of a Roman, son of Hur, 
than any of your Hebrew brethren. 

Ben-Hur {indifferently) . — Am I so unlike my country- 
men? 

Iras. — The demi-gods are all Roman now. 

Ben-Hur. — And therefore you will tell me what more 
you know about me ? 

Iras. — The likeness is not lost upon me. It might in- 
duce me to save you. 

Ben-Hur. — Save me ! 

Iras {slowly and distinctly). — There was a Jew, an es- 
caped galley-slave, who killed a man in the Palace of 
Idernee. {Ben-Hur starts.) The same Jew slew a Roman 
soldier before the Market-place here in Jerusalem ; the 
same Jew has three trained legions from Galilee to seize 
the Roman governor to-night ; the same Jew has alliances 
perfected for war upon Rome, and Ilderim the Sheik is one 
of his partners. {Draws near to him.) You have lived 
in Rome. Suppose these things repeated in ears we know 
of. Ah ! you change color. {He recoils as if she were a 
tiger.) You know the Lord Sejanus. Suppose it were told 
him with the proofs — or without the proofs — that the same 
Jew is the richest man in the East — nay, in all the empire. 
The fishes of the Tiber would have fattening other than 
that they dig out of its ooze, would they not? And while 
they were feeding — ha ! son of Hur ! — what splendor there 
would be on exhibition in the Circus ! Was there ever an 
artist the equal of the Lord Sejanus? 

Ben-Hur {with an e7iforced calmness). — To give you 
pleasure, daughter of Egypt, I acknowledge your cunning 
and that I am at your mercy. I have no hope of your 
favor. I could kill you, but you are a woman. The Desert 
is open to receive me ; and though Rome is a good hunter 



BEN-HUR AND IRAS. IS 3 

of men, there she would follow long and far before she 
caught me, for in its heart there are wildernesses of spears 
as well as wildernesses of sand, and it is not unlovely to the 
unconquered Parthian. In the toils as I am — dupe that I 
have been — yet there is one thing my due : who told you 
all you know about me? In flight or captivity, dying even, 
there will be consolation in leaving the traitor the curse of 
a man who has lived knowing nothing but wretchedness. 
Who told you all you know about me? 

Iras {with some sympathy). — Enough that from this 
person I gathered a handful of circumstances and from that 
other yet another handful, and afterwhile I put them to- 
gether, and was happy as a woman can be who has at 

disposal the fortune and life of a man whom (She taps 

the floor with her foot and looks away from him.) — whom 
she is at loss what to do with. 

Ben-Hur. — No, it is not enough, it is not enough. To- 
morrow you will determine what to do with me. I may 
die. 

Iras. — True, I had something from Sheik Ilderim as he 
lay with my father in a grove out in the Desert. The night 
was still, very still, and walls of the tent, sooth to say, were 
poor ward against ears outside listening to — birds and 
beetles flying through the air. (She smi/es.) Some other 
things — bits of shell for the picture — I had from 

Ben-Hur. — Whom ? 

Iras. — The son of Hur himself. 

Ben-Hur. — Was there no other who contributed ? 

Iras. — No, not one. 

Ben-Hur (with a sigh of relief). — Thanks. It were not 
well to keep the Lord Sejanus waiting for you. The Desert 
is not so sensitive. Again, O Egypt, peace i (He turns 
to depart.) 



154 BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

Iras reaching out her jewelled hanaT). — Stay! {He looks 
back but does not take the hand.) Stay, and do not distrust 
me, O son of Hur, if I declare I know why the noble 
Arrius took you for his heir. ( Very earnestly.) And by 
Iris ! by all the gods of Egypt ! I swear I tremble to think 
of you, so brave and generous, under the hand of the re- 
morseless minister. You have left a portion of your youth 
in the atria of the great capital ; consider, as I do, what 
the Desert will be to you in contrast of life. Oh, I give 
you pity — pity ! And if you but do what I say, I will save 
you. That also I swear by our holy I sis ! 

Ben- Hur {hesitatingly) . — Almost — almost I believe 
you. 

Iras {rapidly, with a?iimation). — The perfect life for a 
woman is to live in love ; the greatest happiness for a man 
is the conquest of himself ; and that, O prince, is what I 
have to ask of you. — You had once a friend. It was in 
your boyhood. There was a quarrel and you and he became 
enemies. He did you wrong. After many years you met 
him again in the Circus at Antioch. 

Ben- Hur. — Messala ! 

Iras {with eaimest entreaty). — Yes, Messala. You are 
his creditor. Forgive the past ; admit him to friendship 
again ; restore the fortune he lost in the great wager ; rescue 
him. The six talents are as nothing to you ; not so much 
as a bud lost upon a tree already in full leaf ; but to him — 
Ah ! he must go about in a broken body ; wherever you 
meet him he must look up to you from the ground. O 
Ben- Hur, noble prince ! to a Roman descended as he is, 
beggary is the other most odious name for death. Save 
him from beggary ! 

Ben- Hur. — The appeal has been decided then, and for 
once a Messala takes nothing. I must go and write it in 



BEX-HUR AND IRAS. 1 55 

my book of great occurrences — a judgment by a Roman 
against a Roman ! But did he — did Messala send you to 
me with this request, O Egypt? 

Iras. — He has a noble nature, and judged you by it. 
{Her hand is on his arm.) 

Ben-Hur (taking her hand). — As you know him in such 
friendly way, fair Egyptian, tell me, would he do for me, 
there being a reversal of the conditions, that he asks of me? 
Answer, by Isis 1 Answer, for the truth's sake ! 

Iras. — Oh ! he is 

Bex-Hur. — A Roman, you were about to say; meaning 
that I, being a Jew, must forgive him my winnings because 
he is a Roman. If you have more to tell me, daughter of 
Balthazar, speak quickly, quickly ; for by the Lord God of 
Israel, when this heat of blood, hotter waxing, attains its 
highest, I may not be able longer to see that you are a 
woman, and beautiful ! I may see but the spy of a master 
the more hateful because the master is a Roman. Say on, 
and quickly. 

Iras (throwing off his hand and stepping back). — Thou 
drinker of lees, feeder upon husks ! To think I could love 
thee, having seen Messala ! Such as thou were born to 
serve him. He would have been satisfied with release of 
the six talents \ but I say to the six thou shalt add twenty 
— twenty, dost thou hear? The merchant here is thy 
keeper of moneys. If by to-morrow at noon he has not 
thy order acted upon in favor of my Messala for six-and- 
twenty talents — mark the sum ! — thou shalt settle with the 
Lord Sejanus. Be wise and — farewell. {She /naves toward 
the doori) 

Bex-Hur (putting himself in her way). — The old Egypt 
lives in you. Whether you see Messala to-morrow or the 
next day, here or in Rome, give him this message. Tel] 



I56 BEN-HUR AND IRAS. 

him I have back the money, even the six talents, he robbed 
me of by robbing my father's estate ; tell him I survived 
the galleys to which he had me sent, and in my strength 
rejoice in his beggary and dishonor ; tell him I think the 
affliction of body which he has from my hand is the curse 
of our Lord God of Israel upon him more fit than death 
for his crimes against the helpless : tell him my mother and 
sister, whom he had sent to a cell in Antonia, that they 
might die of leprosy, are alive and well, thanks to the power 
of the Nazarene whom you so despise ; tell him that along 
with my defiance I do not send him a curse in words, but, 
as a better expression of undying hate, I send him one who 
will prove to him the sum of all curses ; and when he looks 
at you repeating this, my message, daughter of Balthasar, 
his Roman shrewdness will tell him all I mean. Go now — 
and I will go. {He conducts her to the door with ceremo- 
nious politeiiess, and as she disappears, she adds.) Peace to 
you. 

CURTAIN. 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 



Adapted from a tragedy " Savonarola " by Alfred Austin, Poet Laureate. 



CHARACTERS. 



Girolamo Savonarola, Prior of St. Marks. 
Lorenzo de' Medici, Ruler of Florence. 

Situation. — Savonarola is opposed to the rule of Florence 
by any one man, and so Lorenzo is counted his enemy* 
But his religious austerities and his fiery eloquence have 
made him friends and foes among the populace. So 
high is his virtue and so great his influence that Lo- 
renzo, in addition to his regular pi'iest, summons 
Savonarola to hear his last confession. Lorenzo was 
a great patron of classical learning ; hence the reference 
to Plato. 

Savonarola was vety tall and thin. Pictures of 
him may be found readily. He would, of course, be 
dressed in his flowing black priestly robes. Lorenzo is 
reclining on his couch ve?y near the time of his death. 

Lorenzo, having dismissed his followers, on the announce- 
ment of Savonarola is reclining alone. 

My intimates! 
The best men ever had, but helpless now 
To hold me here or cheer me thitherward. 
Of all the company of hearts that sit 
Round our existence smiling, that not one 

iS7 



158 SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 

Should be told off to see us to the land, 
The road of which we know not ! That seems hard. 
To be alone in the full glare of life 
Lulls fear to sleep. But loneliness in death 
Might make the most intrepid spirit take 
Shadows for substance. (The door opens and Savonarola 
appears. He pauses in the doorway. Lorenzo motions 
to him to approach.} 

Lorenzo. — Will you approach, good Prior? 'Tis not 
from lack 
Of reverence for your habit, that I fail 
To greet you more becomingly, but death 
That glues my limbs. 

Savonarola {advancing). — No need to rise, Lorenzo, 
Heaven lays no tax of courtly ceremony ; 
But, being far more exorbitant, it claims 
Full payment of the substance from the soul. 
Why have you sent for me ? 

Lorenzo. — To readjust, 

Before I journey on, unbalanced wrongs 
That gall my conscience. 

Savonarola. — Show me them ! 

Since that it seems Plato avails not now. 
Philosophy, like any false ally, 
Comes to man's aid when need is at the least, 
To shrink away in true extremity. 
But Virtue, unaffected friend, contrives 
To pull us through, though all the fiends conspire 
To wedge us in with evil. 

Lorenzo. — I have made 

Elsewhere confession of my homelier sins. 
But those transgressions that have walked abroad 
In all men's eyes, I have reserved for one 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 1 59 

Who knows no private favor. 

Savonarola. — Then speak on ! 

Death is the looking-glass of life wherein 
Each man may scan the aspect of his deeds. 
How looks it now Lorenzo, now that God 
Holds that unflattering mirror to your soul? 

Lorenzo. — Tis hard on twenty years since, but still, 
still, 
The cry of sacked Volterra haunts my ears. 

Savonarola. — And well it may, Lorenzo ! Do you think 
Thus to divide eternity? Twenty years 
Have placed no second 'twixt your sin and you. 

Lorenzo. — I know it, Prior ; and poignantly confess 
To you and Heaven, the guilt was mostly mine. 
Endorsing claims equivocal to glut 
The yawning coffers of the State, I clutched 
A shadowy right ; the alum mines were won, 
And now the gain lies leaden on my breast 
Though bade I not the slaughter. 

Savonarola.. — Hold ! We bid 

Whatever buttresses our bold designs, 
And are the architects of every wrong 
Raised o'er the ruins of demolished right. 
You cannot take before the throne of God 
The quarry of your hunting ; but the blood 
Clings to your hands. 

Lorenzo. — Seem they so very red? 

So red, contrition cannot wash them white ? 
For there is other gore that soaks my skirt 
Spilt in the usurious payment of the blow 
Struck by the Pazzi at my life, but spilt 
Not from vindictiveness but policy. 

Savonarola. — Will policy avail to change the score 



l6o SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 

Of the Recording Angel ? Hell is full 

Of politic expedients, condoned 

By Earth, to double their offence 'fore Heaven. 

God saved your life ; you slew your enemies. (Lorenzo 

exhibits signs of agitation?) 
Yet will He pardon even as He saved, 
So anguish in the balance lift up guilt. 
Is your confession ended ? 

Lorenzo. — Alas ! no. 
Full many an orphan maiden hath been robbed 
Of dowry guaranteed ; and virtue, shorn 
Of its substantial outbreak, hath succumbed 
To the besieger. This seems direst wrong 

Savonarola. — And is a direst wrong. The body pushed 
Out of this life precociously may find 
A better tenement. But he that fouls 
A virgin soul and leaves it to corrupt, 
Would strain God's mercy to the snapping-point, 
If it were not far-reaching as Himself. 
You must amend this injury. 

Lorenzo. — Show me how, 

And quickly will I do it. 

Savonarola. — 'Tis enough. 

Let restitution be in full ordained ; 
And, if you live, each victim ferret out 
And wed her to the cloister. 

Lorenzo. — Doing this, 

May I the Almighty Arbiter confront, 
And reckon on indulgence? 

Savonarola. — Naught that is, 

Mountain, nor sea, nor the vast atmosphere, 
Nor even man's stupendous scope of sin, 
Can get beyond the circumambient range 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. l6l 

Of Divine mercy. But before my hands 
May absolution shower upon your soul, 
Three things there are first indispensable. 

Lorenzo. — What may these be? 

Savonarola. — Firstly, that you should have 

Faith in God's mercy, living faith and full. 

Lorenzo. — And that I have ; for if I had it not, 
How ill-caparisoned were I to start 
L T pon this final journey ! 

Savonarola. — Next, that you 

Make reparation absolute, and lay 
This as a prior legacy on your sons, 
For lingering wrong to friend or enemy. 
To this you pawn your soul? 

Lorenzo. — My soul be bond, 
And forfeit if I fail ! 

Savonarola. — Lastly, Lorenzo, 

But mainly this of all, you must restore 
Her liberties to Florence. 

Lorenzo (starting forward on the conch.) — Friar, hold ! 
You overstep your territory there, 
And make a raid on my dominions. 
Remember what is Caesar's. 

Savonarola. — Do I fail? 

Where did you get your empire ? Who was it gave 
The Medici on Florence that sly grip 
Which you have tightened ? Nay, invoke not God ! 
For he as Caesar ne'er anointed you ; 
And, failing His anointment, show me then 
The sanction of His people. 

Lorenzo. — What I have, 
They freely gave. 

Savonarola. — They were not free to give; 



1 62 SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 

For you with splendor first corrupted them, 
Drugging their love of virtue, that you might 
Their love of freedom violate, and they 
The detriment discern not. 

Lorenzo. — I gave all, 

All that I have, all I inherited, 
To vivify this city, and to lift 
Her diadem of glory high above 
All cities, kingdoms, principalities, 
Lavished the substance of my House on her, 
Discriminating not which hers, which mine, 
And die with empty coffers that enriched 
The fame of Florence. Was it crime in me? 
In face of heavenly ermine will I claim, 
For that, exemption. 

Savonarola. — Pandars might as well 
Plead the foul price they pay, as you invoke 
The substance squandered on the Commonwealth, 
Whose freedom you have ravished. Well you know 
In Florence that the government of One 
Was an abomination till your Line 
Drew all the reins of rule into its hand, 
And jingling trappings of subjection laid 
Upon a pampered people. Glory ! Fame ! 
Fame is but sound ; conscience makes harmony ; 
And happy he who truthfully can say, 
When the world's pagan plaudits cease, he heard 
The sacred music of a virtuous heart. 
Give Florence back her freedom ! 

Lorenzo. — She is free, 

And of her freedom made me what I am, 
And by that freedom will unmake my sons 
If they run short of wisdom. 



SAVONAROLA AND LORENZO. 1 63 

Savonarola. — Then enough ! 
And summon your attendants. (Lorenzo rings. His 

friends enter.) You have need 
No more of me. But this, Lorenzo, mark ! 
What you refuse, that Florence swift will take, 
When your magnificence shall lie entombed, 
And God arraign you for the rights you filched, 
But could not carry with you, nor bequeath. 
Die, by my voice unshriven ! (His friends crowd round 
him. Savonarola turns to depart, but pauses, and 
gazes at Lorenzo with a look of austere menace. 
Curtain falls.} 



TITO'S ARMOR. 



Adapted from George Eliot's novel, " Romola. 55 



CHARACTER. 



Tito Melema, a handsome young mart of dark complexion, 
of keen mind and gentle mariners. 

Baldassarre, his father, a powerfully built old man, whose 
strength and power have been shattered by disease. 

Piero di Cosimo, a great painter, gruff but sympathetic, and 

very keen. 
Komola, wife 0/Trro, beautiful and intelligent 

Situation. — Tito is a deceiver. He has left his father to die 
in slavery and the jewels given him to purchase the old 
man y s freedom have been sold for his own enrich77ient. 
Suddenly the old man appears in front of the San Marco 
Duomo in Florence and seizes Tito, who is so terrified 
from his consciousness of guilt that he declares the man 
mad. Piero di Cosimo catches the situation and 
paints on canvas, in his studio, the two faces. Tito 
in his fear buys chain armor and puts it on under his 
tunic. 

Tito fears that Romola knows more about Baldas- 
sarre than he wishes. She fears to ask him ; she fears 
to ask Piero more than a general question. 

These scenes are supposea to take place in Florence, 
during the last days of the life of Savonarola, at the 
close of the fifteenth century. 

164 



tito's armor. 165 

Scene I. 

Romola is sitting in the library at the opposite end of which 
is a wood fire. She hears the outer door close and 
hastens to greet Tito at the library door. Enter Tito. 

Romola. — My Tito, you are tired ; it has been a fatiguing 
day: is it not true? (She takes off his mantle and carries 
it away.) 

Tito (he pays little attention to what she says, sits 
down in a chair placed for him near the far, tosses his cap 
into the corner). — Romola {he shudders slightly) I wish 
you would give up sitting in this library. Surely our own 
rooms are pleasanter in this chill weather. 

Romola. — I wonder you have forgotten, Tito. You 
know I am making the catalogue on the new plan that my 
father wished for ; you have not time to help me, so I must 
work at it closely. 

Tito (lie closes his eyes, rubs his hands over his face 
and hair) . — I am not well, Romola ; you must not be sur- 
prised if I am peevish. 

Romola. — Ah, you have had so much to tire you to-day. 
(She kneels down close to him and lays one arm on his chest 
while she puts his hair back caressingly with the other. 
Suddenly she di'aws her arm away with a look of alarmed 
inquiry). What have you got on under your tunic, Tito? 
Something as hard as iron. 

Tito (quietly). — It is iron — it is chain armor. 

Romola. — There was some unexpected danger to-day, 
then? You had it lent to you for the procession? 

Tito. — No ; it is my own. I shall be obliged to wear it 
constantly for some time. 

Romola (looking terrified). — What is it threatens you, 
my Tito? 



1 66 TITO'S ARMOR. 

Tito. — Every one is threatened in these times. Don't 
look distressed, my Romola; this armor will make me safe 
against covert attacks. 

Romola. — But, Tito, is it a fear of some particular 
person, or only a vague sense of danger that has made you 
think of wearing this ? 

Tito. — I have had special threats, but I must beg you to 
be silent on this subject, Romola. I shall consider that 
you have broken my confidence if you mention it. 

Romola. — Assuredly I will not mention it, if you wish it 
to be a secret. But dearest Tito, it will make you very 
wretched. 

Tito {with a little alarm lest she know more than she 
should), — What will make me wretched? 

Romola. — This fear — this heavy armor. I can't help 
shuddering as I feel it under my arm. It seems so unlike 
my bright, light-hearted Tito. 

Tito. — Then you would rather have your husband ex- 
posed to danger when he leaves you? {He smiles.) If 
you don't mind my being poniarded or shot, why need I 
mind? I will give up the armor; shall I? 

Romola. — No, no, Tito. I am fanciful. Do not heed 
what I have said. But is there no more hope that things 
will end peaceably, for Florence? 

Tito {with a shrug). — Florence will have no peace 
but what it pays well for ; that is clear. 

Romola {she remains sad a moment and then bright- 
ens), — You would not guess where I went to-day, Tito. I 
went to the Duomo to hear Fra Girolamo. {Tito starts.) 
You are surprised, are you not ? It was a sudden thought : 
I want to know all about the public affairs now. 

Tito. — Well, and what did you think of the prophet ? 

Romola. — He certainly has a very mysterious power, 



TITO'S ARMOR. 167 

that man. A great deal of his sermon was what I expected ; 
but once I sobbed with the rest. 

Tito {playfully) . — Take care, Romola \ you have a touch 
of fanaticism in you. I shall have you seeing visions. 

Romola. — No ; it was the same with every one else. 
He carried them all with him. There was even a wretched 
looking man, with a rope round his neck — an escaped pri- 
soner, I should think, who had run in for shelter — a very 
wild-eyed old man : I saw him with great tears rolling down 
his cheeks as he looked and listened quite eagerly. 

Tito (pausing to collect himself). — I saw the man, the 
prisoner. I was outside the Duomo with Lorenzo when he 
ran in. He had escaped from a French soldier. Did you 
see him when you came out? 

Romola. — No, he went out with our good old Piero di 
Cosimo. I saw Piero come in and cut off his rope, and 
take him out of the church. — {Tito's horror overcomes 
him.) But you want rest, Tito? You feel ill? 

Tito (rising with a look of sickening fear) . — Yes. (He 
goes off. She follows but turns back with a look of terrible 
doubt). 

Scene II. 

A portrait-painter 's studio, — pictures about in all stages of 
completion, but near the entrance two pictures lean 
against the side-wall, the larger concealing the smaller. 
The floor is somewhat littered with bits of wood, &*" 
Enter Piero with skull-cap on. He goes to a canvas 
on opposite side of room and works on it. A knock, and 
enter Romola in street costume, with a small basket in 
her hand. 

Piero. — Ah ! Madonna Romola, is it you ! I thought 
my eggs were come. I wanted them. 



i68 tito's armor. 

Romola. — I have brought you something better than 
hard eggs, Piero. I have a little basket full of cakes and 
confetti for you. (She puts back her veil and then uncovers 
the basket.} I know you like these things when you can 
have them without trouble. Confess you do. 

Piero (folding his arms and looking down at the 
basket). — Yes, when they come to me as easily as the light 
does. — But I know what the sweetmeats are for ; they are 
to stop my mouth while you scold me. Well, you will see 
I have done something to your father's picture since you 
saw it, though it's not finished yet. But I didn't promise, 
you know ; I take care not to promise. (He crosses the 
room, takes up the large picture from before the small one 
and carries it back f scrutinizing it carefully, to the easel at 
which he was working) . 

Romola (staring in astonishment at the small picture 
which Piero has just uncovered unintentionally). — That is 
Tito ! (Piero looks round and shrugs his shoulders 1'egret- 
f telly.) What a strange picture ! When did you paint it ? 
What does it mean? (Aside.) Is Tito afraid of that old 
man? Is that why he wears armor? 

Piero (pulling off his skull-cap and scratching his head 
to conceal his vexation at his blunder) . — A mere fancy of 
mine. I wanted a handsome face for it and your husband's 
was just the thing. {He picks up the picture back to Romola 
to put it mit of sight) . 

Romola. — Don't put it away ; let me look again. That 
man with the rope around his neck — I saw him — I saw you 
come to him in the Duomo. What was it that made you 
put him into a picture with Tito? 

Piero. — It was a mere accident. The man was running 
away — running up the steps, and caught hold of your hus- 
band. I happened to be there and saw it, and I thought 



TITO'S ARMOR. I 69 

the savage-looking old fellow was a good subject. But it's 
worth nothing — it's only a freakish daub of mine. (He 
casts the bit of canvas away on some high shelf,) Come 
and look at your father. 

Romola. — He was a strange piteous-looking man, that 
prisoner. Do you know anything more of him? 

Piero. — No more ; I showed him the way to the hospital, 
that's all. (He points to the portrait of her father.) See, 
now, the face is pretty nearly finished ; tell me what you 
think of it. 

Romola {after gazing in silence some moments). — Ah! 
you have done what I wanted. You have given it more of 
the listening look. My dear Piero, I am very grateful to 
you. 

Piero (kicking impatiently objects littering the floor). — 
Now, that's what I can't bear in you women, you're always 
pouring out feelings where there's no call for them. If I 
paint a picture, I suppose it's for my own pleasure and 
credit to paint them well, eh? But women think walls are 
held together with honey. 

Romola. — You crusty Piero ! I forgot how snappish 
you are. Here, put this nice sweetmeat in your mouth. 
{She takes one out of her basket?) 

Piero. — It's good, Madonna Romola. {He puts in his 
fingers for another.) 

Romola {she sets down the basket and puts on her 
veil). — Good-bye, Piero. I promise not to thank you if 
you finish the portrait soon and well. I will tell you, you 
were bound to do it for your own credit. 

Piero. — Good. {He helps her with her mantle and she 
goes out.) 



170 TITO'S ARMOR. 

Scene III. 

A miserable hovel with straw in one corner. Baldassarre 
enters distractedly and sits on a low stool a little to one 
side. 
Baldassarre {putting his hand to his head). — It is gone 
— it is all gone ! And they would not believe me, because 
he lied, and said I was mad, and dragged me away. And 
I am old — (Agai?i he puts his hand to his head.) My mind 
will not come back. — And the world is against me. {A 
pause.) He made me love him, he was beautiful and 
gentle, and I was a lonely man. They were beating me 
when I took him. He slept in my bosom when he was 
little, and I watched him grow, and gave him all my knowl- 
edge, and everything that was mine, I meant to be his. I 
had many things, money and books and gems. He had 
my gems — he sold them ; and he left me in slavery. He 
never came to seek me and now that I am come back poor 
and in misery, he denies me. He said I was a madman — 
{Another paused) Oh if I could only find all my thoughts 
again ! / was locked away outside them all. And I am 

outside now. I feel nothing but a wall and darkness 

It all came back once. I was master of everything, I saw 
all the world again and my gems, and my books ; and I 
thought I had him in my power, and I went to expose him 
where — where the lights were and the trees ; and he lied 
again and said I was mad, and they dragged me away to 

prison Wickedness is strong ; the world is against me : 

but there is a fire within {he clutches his dagger) and it is 
the fire that works. I am not alone in the world ; I shall 
never be alone, for my revenge is with me. — {He half rises 
with his dagger in his hand.) If I might clutch his heart- 
strings forever! Come, O blessed promise ! Let my 



TITO'S ARMOR. 171 

blood flow 1 let the fire consume me ! — {The old man sinks 
back and there is silence.) 

Tito enters after making some noise in opening the door, 
Baldassarre staggers up a?id lunges at Tito with his 
dagger. It snaps against the armor and Baldassarre 
falls dow?i and back slowly, with a look of intense hate. 

Tito {after a pause, in a calm, insinuating 7'oice) . — 
Padre mio ! — I came to ask your forgiveness. {Another 
pause. Baldassarre lies on the straw, trembling and lean- 
ing 071 one arm.) I was taken by surprise that morning. 
I wish now to be a son to you again. I wish to make the 
rest of your life happy, that you may forget what you have 
suffered. 

Baldassarre {He throws away his dagger and slowly, 
still trembling, begins to rise. Tito puts out his hand, 
Baldassarre clutches it, raises himself and still holding the 
hand, speaks close into Tito's face). — I saved you — I 
nurtured you — I loved you. You forsook me — you robbed 
me — you denied me. What can you give me? You have 
made the world bitterness to me ; but there is one draught 
of sweetness left — that you shall know agony. {He drops 
Tito's hand and goes backward catching himself as he sinks 
down again on the straw exhausted.) 

Tito, {after a pause, calmly). — Do you mean to stay 
here? 

Baldassarre {bitterly). — No, you mean to turn me 
out. 

Tito. — Not so, I only asked. 

Baldassarre. — I tell you, you have turned me out. If it 
is your straw, you turned me off it three years ago. 

Tito. — Then you mean to leave this place? 

Baldassarre. — I have spoken. {Tito turns to leave but 



172 TITO'S ARMOR. 

stops to hear Baldassarre who begins to speak as if his mind 
had wandered?) I was a loving fool — I worshipped a 
woman once, and believed she would care for me. And 
then I took a helpless child and fostered him ; and I watched 
him as he grew to see if he would care for me only a little — 
care for me over and above the good he got from me. I 
would have torn open my breast to warm him with my life 
blood, if I could only have seen him care a little for the pain 
of my wound. I have labored, I have strained to crush out 
of this hard life one drop of unselfish love. Fool ! And 
yet when he was a child he lifted soft eyes toward me and 
held my hand ; I thought this boy will surely love me a 
little ; because I give my life to him and strive that he 
shall know no sorrow, he will care a little when I am 
thirsty — the drops he lays on my parched lips will be a joy 
to him. — (He turns and sees Tito still standing by the door 
and listening. He straggles to his feet?) Curses on you ! 
May I see you lie with those red lips white and dry as 
ashes. It is all a lie — this world is a lie — there is no good- 
ness but in hate ! Fool ! Not one drop of love has come 
with all my striving. But there are deep draughts in this 
world for hatred and revenge. I have memory for that, 
and there is strength in my arm {he totters towards Tito) — 
there is strength in my will — and if I can do nothing but 
kill you (he clutches Tito's arm and glares into his face) — 
There is a moment after the thrust when men see the face 
of death — and it shall be my face that you shall see. (As 
these last words are uttered, Tito retires slowly followed by 
the old man still clutching him until they go out.) 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 



Adapted from " The Cipher Despatch," by Robert Byr. 



CHARACTERS. 

Bertram Karst, a young man grown old and almost insane 
by brooding on the wrongs done him, 

Weddo, a large, powerfully-built man, husband of Grace. 

Mrs. Karst, mother ^/Bertram. 

Grace, {whom Bertram calls Graziella), daughter of a 
former Prime Minister. 

Situation. — Bertram, at one time accepted by Grace as a 
lover, has sworn vengeance on her father for giving her 
to Weddo. His rejection^ however, was due to his 
father's implied connection with a secret act of public 
treason. The real traitor is at last fotmd to be the 
son of the Pri?ne Minister. This fact is published and 
Bertram seeks to win Grace again, but she refuses to 
get a divorce. He then in revenge plans an elopement 
with a lady under Grace's protection. He is expecting 
this lady when the scene opens. 

The room in which the scene takes place is very bare. 
There is a table and a chair or two, — one chair neat 
the table. 

173 



3 74 LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 

Bertram enters with his overcoat on his arm, and ap- 
proaches the table. He draws from his pocket a pistol 
which he looks at carefully, then he lays it on the table, 
and throws his coat over it. He is expecting some one, 
looks at his watch, goes to the door to listen. At last, as 
he is with his back toward the door, he hears some one 
coming. He turns and takes a step to receive her in 
his arms, but starts back at the discovery that Grace 
and not Adele, has come. 

Bertram (staring in amazement, a moment). — Graziella ! 
(She has been running a?id camiot yet speak.) What brings 
you here? 

Grace. — Did you not expect one of the inmates of the 
castle ? 

Bertram. — But not 

Grace. — Not me — finish. 

Bertram (gloomily). — You seem to be fully initiated in 
my plans. 

Grace (nodding gravely). — I think so, even to your last 
intentions. 

Bertram (impetuously). — And through whom? Through 
whom? Not through her ! She cannot have become irre- 
solute. Who betrayed me? 

Grace (after a moment's hesitation). — Her maid has 
confessed all that she knows. I won her. 

Bertram. — So you spy upon others, and reward treachery. 

Grace. — Why should I hesitate to do so when the honor 
and peace of my family, the happiness, and perhaps the 
life of my father, are involved? 

Bertram (stamps his foot a?igrily) . — Your calculations 
have failed. Your greatest care will not prevent me from 
doing what I have resolved upon. Instead of to-day, to- 
morrow ; that is all the difference. I will go at once to 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 175 

the castle and force my way in to her. Why need it be a 
secret elopement? 

Grace. — You will not do that. 

Bertram. — Who will prevent me? 

Grace. — I. 

Bertram {fiercely) . — And do you think you will frustrate 
me? {He comes close up to her, then grasps her arm .) Do 
you know that you are in my power? 

Grace. — You will not do so. 

Bertram. — And why not? Do you feel so safe? You 
came here yourself, and am I to let you go? I have had 
you in my power once already. Now you shall be mine 
forever — my slave ! You venture into a wolf's den, oh, 
clever lamb; why should I not devour you? 

Grace {shaking from head to foot, but gazing at him), — 
Because you loved me — or was that, too, a lie? 

Bertram {letting his hand fall fvm her arm), — You ap- 
pealed to that at a wrong time. 

Grace {gently), — How could a man injure one whom, 
even in times long past, he has truly loved? 

Bertram. — How do you know that? From your own 
experience? 

Grace. — Yes. The feeling that one would fain bless an- 
other's life can never become extinct, whatever may after- 
ward happen. If you loved me 

Bertram {bitterly), — You still doubt it? 

Grace. — No, Bertram. You are not naturally evil, and 
all that you do in moments of passion will fall back upon 
yourself. No ; I know better than you do, that because 
you once loved me you can do me no harm ; but all that 
you do to my family falls upon me, each blow wounds me. 
And if you wish to inflict misery and grief upon me, have I 
not suffered enough? 



176 LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 

Bertram (gloomily). — Have you asked what I suffer? 

Grace. — If a balance is to be struck, I think your scale 
hangs far the lowest. You are terribly avenged. Could 
you see my poor father, your thirst for revenge would be 
satisfied, — the minister ruined and in his voluntary exile, 
and with him his whole family. In truth, I should have 
fancied that your hand would have been disarmed by such 
a monstrous price. 

Bertram. — You did not believe that this publicity was 
my fault ! 

Grace {gazing silently at him for some time) . — No, no, 
I did not believe it, and told the others so. I was not 
deceived when I counted on your pride. It will also 
prevent you in future from again attempting what is beneath 
your dignity. {She holds out her hand to him.) 

Bertram (hesitating) . — Why did you come ? You could 
have written me all this, and I should have been spared 
seeing you. 

Grace (approaching and laying her hand gently on his 
arm). — Because I wished to tell you this, Bertram, and be- 
cause I knew that you would listen to me. It is not your 
nature to hate. Your heart was poisoned. You must be 
again what you once were. I saw that you suffered and I 
pitied you. I saw you working your own ruin, and I hoped 
I could prevent it. 

Bertram. — Yes, yes ; they all said so ! The madman 
who destroys his own life, who raises his hand against him- 
self. Go then ! You have taken away the object of my 
life ; it is well. 

Grace (with deep emotion). — Bertram ! 

Bertram (covering his eyes and groaning) . — Yes, yes ; 
the world is as empty as my heart. The fires of life are 
burned out ; nothing is left but ashes. All is over ; all ! 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. I 77 

Go ! Go ! ( While Grace stands beside him, hesitating 
whether to leave him, the door bursts open and her husband, 
J I r eddo % plu nges in .) 

Weddo (muttering). — Then it is true ! it is true ! {With 
a great effort at self-control he approaches the table opposite 
Bertram.) Why did you not at least bolt the door ? Have 
you so little respect for a woman who forgets herself, that 
you will not even protect her from a surprise and humilia- 
tion? Or do you feel so secure from me that you neglect 
the simplest precaution? The insult is then a double one. 

Bertram (rising, still feeling desolate, and not under- 
standing Weddo' s speech). — What do you want here? I 
have nothing to do with you. 

Weddo (in angry surprise). — Indeed, I think you have ! 
You will not refuse to give me satisfaction. 

Bertram. — I give you? I think rather that I am called 
upon to demand such. 

Grace. — What are you thinking of, Weddo? Is it 

possible that a low suspicion (His intense gaze stops 

her.) 

Weddo. — No more words are needed, the facts speak 
plainly enough. If you fancied me blind and deaf, I was 
not. I have had too much confidence in her whom I made 
my wife, although I knew she did not love me, and yet I 
hoped she would learn to forget and after a time a warmer 
feeling might be awakened. But another pair of eyes 
sharpened by ill-will and distrust, saw for me and they saw 
rightly, as I have here proof. Old Hanuschka told me 
that on the night of the hunt-dinner a man was in your 
rooms. I was too proud to allude, even by a word, to my 
knowledge of it. I did indeed learn my mistake as day 
after day passed without your speaking. I should have 
acted more wisely for my own and my honor's sake, if I 
12 



178 LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 

had sought out this man and killed him before he had per- 
suaded his old mother to act as go-between, and sent her 
to you to arrange this interview. 

Bertram (who has been growing more and more excited), 
— Senseless man ! You revile innocence and goodness. I 
did not call her ; she came herself, and what she did was 
no insult to the honor of your house, but its protection. 
Without her, yet more disgrace would have befallen your 
family, and I should be revenged. ( Weddo looks from one 
to the other.) 

Grace {holding out her hand, pleadingly). — Oh, believe 
him, Weddo ! 

Weddo. — And in order to avert disgrace do you plunge 
in it over your head ? 

Bertram (furiously). — Whoever treats his wife thus does 
not deserve her. And why should I leave you here? Her 
heart belonged to me ; it shall continue mine. What 
prevents me from killing you as you spoke of killing me ? 
You reproached yourself for not taking your rights before. 
I will not make this mistake. I take only what is mine. 
( With flashing eye he reaches for the pistol under his coat on 
the table.) 

Weddo (with a defiant glance and a scornful tone). — It 
would be no novelty if a housebreaker, seducer, and thief 
were to become a murderer also. Only you cannot drive 
me to suicide. Your own hand must complete the work 
this time. 

Bertram (cocking his pistol) . — Then be accursed ! 

Grace. — Ah ! ( With a wild scream throwing herself 
upon her husband.) Have pity ! I love him ! (Bertram 
wavers, his hand shakes* he drops the pistol, sinks into a 
chair and his head falls forward into his hands.) 

Weddo (to Grace). — If he had hit you ! Merciful God ! 



LOVE CONQUERS REVENGE. 179 

Grace. — O Weddo, I will live and die with you! 
Weddo. — Grace ! {Weddo and Grace go out.) 
Bertram {remains in the same position, only uttering an 
occasional groan, until his mother quietly entering lays her 
hand on his shoulder. He then raises his head slowly?) — 
Mother ! (The two are clasped in each other's arms and 
their sobs mingled.} 

CURTAIN. 



BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 



This scene is adapted from " Becket," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 



CHARACTERS. 

Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, tall, powerful, 
a?id commanding. 

Sir Reginald Fitzurse, a Knight of the Kings household 
and an enemy of Becket. 

Geoffrey, the young son of the King and Rosamund. 

Eleanor, Queen of England. 

Rosamund de Clifford^ secret mistress of the King, of great 
beauty and iniiocence. 

Situation. — Rosamund believes that she is the only truly 
wedded wife of Henry II., who has hid her and her 
beautiful boy in a secret bower in a forest of England. 
Henry is away from England, and the Queen with 
Fitzurse has discovered the location of the " Bower." 
Just before the scene here given Rosamund suspects that 
there is a Queen. Her keeper has become drunken and 
careless, and Geoffrey's nurse untrustworthy. Becket 
has been given charge of the "Bower" during He n?ys 
absence, and towards the end of the sce?ie arrives fust 
in time to prevent a murder. He is a very powerful 
man. 

Eleanor should have a disagreeable look and carry 
about her person some vials of poison and a dagger. 

180 



BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 151 

Enter ROSAMUND, much disturbed. 

Rosamund. — The boy so late ; pray God, he be not lost 
I sent this Margery, and she comes not back ; 
I sent another, and she comes not back ; 
I go myself — so many alleys, crossings, 
Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, now 
The folds have fallen from the mystery, 
And left all naked, I were lost indeed. 

Enter Geoffrey and Eleanor, a little distance behind him. 
Geoffrey, the pain thou has put me to ! {she sees Eleanor} 

— Ha, you ! 
How came you hither? 

Eleanor. — Your own child brought me hither. 

Geoffrey. — You said you couldn't trust Margery, and I 
watched her and followed her into the woods, and I lost 
her, and went on and on till I found the light and the lady, 
and she says she can make you sleep o' nights. 

Rosamund (to Eleanor). — How dared you? Know you 
not this bower is secret, 
Of and belonging to the King of England, 
More sacred than his forests for the chase ? 
Nay, nay, Heaven help you ; get you hence in haste 
Lest worse befall you. 

Eleanor. — Child, I am mine own self 

Of and belonging to the King. The King 
Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belongings, 

Almost as many as your true Mussulman 

Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases him 
To call his wives ; but so it chances, child, 
That I am his main paramour, his sultana, 
But since the fondest pair of doves will jar, 
Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of late, 



1 82 BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 

And thereupon he called my children bastards. 
Do you believe that you are married to him ? 

Rosamund. — I should believe it. 

Eleanor. — You must not believe it, 

Because I have a wholesome medicine here 
Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, beauty ! 
Do you believe that you are married to him ? 

Rosamund. — Geoffrey, my boy, I saw the ball you lost in 
the fork of the great willow over the brook. Go. See that 
you do not fall in. Go. 

Geoffrey. — And leave you alone with the good fairy. 
She calls you beauty, but I don't like her looks. 

Rosamund. — Go. {He goes out) 

Eleanor. — He is easily found again. Do you believe it ? 
I pray you then to take my sleeping-draught ; 
But if you should not care to take it — see ! {She draws a 

dagger.) 
What ! have I scared the red rose from your face 
Into your heart. But this will find it there, 
And dig it from the root for ever. 

Rosamund (she has shrunk back at sight of the dagger) . — 
Help! Help! 

Eleanor. — They say that walls have ears ; but these, it 
seems, 
Have none ! and I have none — to pity thee. 

Rosamund. — I do beseech you — my child is so young. 
1 am not so happy I could not die myself, 
But the child is so young. You have children — his ; 

And mine is the King's child ; so, if you love him 

Nay, if you love him, there is a great wrong done 
Somehow ; but if you do not — there are those 
Who say you do not love him — let me go 
With my young boy, and God will be our guide, 



BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 1 83 

And I will beg my bread along the world. 
I never meant you harm in any way. 
See, I can say no more. 

Eleanor. — Will you not say you are not married to him? 

Rosamund. — Ay, madam, I can say it, if you will. 

Eleanor. — Then is thy pretty boy a bastard? 

Rosamund. — No. 

Eleanor. — And thou thyself a proven wanton? 

Rosamund. — No. 

I am none such. I never loved but one. 
I have heard of such that range from love to love, 
Like the wild beast — if you can call it love. 
I have heard of such — yea, even among those 
Who sit on thrones — I never saw any such, 
Never knew any such, and howsoever 
You do misname me, match'd with any such, 
I am snow to mud. 

Eleanor. — The more the pity then 
That thy true home — the heavens — cry out for thee 
Who art too pure for earth. 

Enter Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse. — Give her to me. 

Eleanor. — The Judas-lover of our passion-play 
Hath tracked us hither. 

Fitzurse. — Well, why not? I follow'd 
You and the child ; he babbled all the way. 
Give her to me to make my honeymoon. 

Eleanor. — No ! 

I follow out my hate and thy revenge. 

Fitzurse. — You bade me take revenge another way — — 

To bring her to the dust Come with me, love, 

And I will love thee Madam, let her live. 

I have a far-off burrow where the King 



184 BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 

Would miss her and for ever. 

Rosamund.— Give me the poison ; set me free of him ! 
{Eleanor offers the via/.) 
No, no ! I will not have it. 

Eleanor. — Then this other, 

The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught 
May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make 
Thy body loathsome, even to thy child ; 
While this but leaves thee with a broken heart, 
A doll-face blanched and bloodless, over which 
If pretty Godfrey do not break his own, 
It must be broken for him. 

Rosamund. — Oh, I see now 

Your purpose is to fright me — a troubadour 
You play with words. You had never used so many, 

Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child 

No mercy ! No ! (She kneels.) 

Eleanor. — Play ! that bosom never 

Heaved under the King's hand with such true passion 
As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, 
Which it will quench in blood ! — Fitzurse, 
The running down the chase is kindlier sport 
Ev'n than the death. ( To Rosamund ) Take thy one chance ; 
Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse ; 
Crouch even because thou hatest him ; fawn upon him 
For thy life and thy son's. 

Rosamund (rising) . — I am a Clifford, 
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. 
I am to die then, tho' there stands beside thee 
One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he 
Had aught of man, or thou of woman ; or I 
Would bow to such a baseness as would make me 
Most worthy of it ; both of us will die, 



BECKE1 iAMUND. 

Strike ! 

I challenge thee to meet me before God. 

Answer me there. 

Eleanor (she raises the dagger). — This in thy bosom, fool 
And after in thy 

Enter Becket /zw// behind. 

Becket {lie seizes her raised arm). — Murderess ! {The 
dagger falls ; they stare at one another, but he does not re- 
lease her.) 

Eleanor (after a pause), — My, lord, we know you proud 
of your fine hand, 
But having now admired it long enough, 

We find that it is mightier than it seems 

At least mine own is frailer ; you are laming it. 

Becket. — And lamed and maimed to dislocation, better 
Than raised to take a life which Henry bade me 
Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death 
To wail in deathless flame. 

Eleanor. — My lord Fitzurse 

Becket (he drops her arm and discovers him). — He too ! 
what dost thou here ? 
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema 
And make a world's horror. 

Fitzurse. — My lord, I shall 

Remember this. 

Becket. — I do remember thee. (Fitzurse goes out.) 

(To Eleanor) Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath. 

Eleanor. — Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it 
me? (She wilts u nder h is pierci?ig gla nee.) 
But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high. 
Well — well — too costly to be left or lost. (She picks up the 
dagger with a look of great scorn toward Becket.) 



1 86 BECKET SAVES ROSAMUND. 

Becket {after watching in silence the picking up of the dag- 
ger, turns to Rosaniund). — Daughter, the world hath 
trick'd thee. Leave it, daughter. (He speaks gently.) 

Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery, 

And live what may be left thee of a life 

Saved as by miracle, alone with Him 

Who gave it. (He leads Rosamund out. Eleanor waits 
till they have disappeared, looks all round disdain- 
fully and goes out) 



THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 



Adapted from u Prince Otto," by Robert Louis Stevenson. 



CHARACTERS. 

Princess Seraphina, Queen of Grunewald. 

Countess Anna von Rosen, an intriguing lady of the Court, 
who has a true regard for the King, Prince Otto, 

Situation. — Baron Heinrich Gondremark, in the absence 
of the Prince, has obtained control of affairs of the 
kingdom through the Princess, and stirs up a rebellion. 
On the Prince 's return, he persuades the Princess to 
write an order to imprisoii the Prince. Countess 
Anna has shown this order to the Prince, who has 
willingly submitted, and then she has carried it to the 
authorities for execution. She returns to the Princess 
to stir up a proper love for the Prince and to get an 
order for his release. 

The Princess sits alone at her table, troubled by conscience, 
out of health, out of heart. Enter Countess. 

Princess. — You come, madam, from the Baron? Be 
seated. What have you to say? 

Countess. — To say? Oh, much to say ! Well! to be 
categorical — that is the word? — I took the Prince your 

187 



1 88 THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 

order. He could not credit his senses. "Ah," he cried, 
"dear Madame von Rosen, it is not possible — it cannot 
be — I must hear it from your lips. My wife is a poor girl 
misled, she is only silly, she is not cruel." " Mon Prince" 
said I, " a girl — and therefore cruel ; youth kills flies." — 
He had such pain to understand it ! 

Princess (a little angry). — Madame von Rosen, who 
sent you here, and for what purpose ? Tell your errand. 

Countess. — O madam, I believe you understand me very 
well. I have not your philosophy. I wear my heart upon 
my sleeve, excuse the indecency ! It is a very little one 
{she laughs), and I so often change the sleeve. 

Princess (rising). — Am I to understand the Prince has 
been arrested? 

Countess (quite nonchalant) . — While you sat there 
dining ! 

Princess. — You have discharged your errand ; I will not 
detain you. 

Countess. — O no, madam, with your permission, I have 
not yet done. I have borne much this evening in your 
service. (She unfolds her fan, to conceal her inward agita- 
tion ; but waves it very languidly.) 

Princess. — You are no servant, Madame von Rosen, of 
mine. 

Countess. — No, madam, indeed ; but we both serve the 
same person, as you know — or if you do not, then I have 
the pleasure of informing you. Your conduct is so light — 
so light (she waves the fan like a butterfly'), that perhaps you 
do not truly understand. (She rolls her fan together and puts 
it in her lap.) Indeed, I should be sorry to see any young 
woman in your situation. You began with every advantage 
— birth, a suitable marriage — quite pretty, too — and see 
what you have come to ! My poor girl, to think of it ! 



THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 1 89 

But there is nothing that does so much harm as giddiness 
of mind. {She fans herself again.} 

Princess. — I will no longer permit you to forget yourself. 
I think you are mad. 

Countess. — Not mad. Sane enough to know you dare 
not break with me to-night, and to profit by the knowledge. 
I left my poor pretty Prince Charming crying his eyes out 
for a wooden doll. O, you immature fool ! {She rises to 
her feet and the closed fan trembles as she points it at the 
Princess?) O wooden doll ! have you a heart, or blood, or 
any nature? This is a man, child — a man who loves you. 
Oh, it will not happen twice ! And you, you pitiful school- 
girl, tread this jewel underfoot ! you, stupid with your 
vanity ! — I will tell you one of the things that were to stay 
unspoken. Von Rosen is a better woman than you, my 
Princess, though you will never have the pain of under- 
standing it \ and when I took the Prince your order, and 
looked upon his face, my soul was melted — Oh, I am frank — 
here, within my arms, I offered him repose. {She ad- 
vances, as she speaks, with outstretched arms, but the Prin- 
cess shrinks away.} Do not be alarmed ; I am not offer- 
ing that hermitage to you. In all the world there is but 
one who wants to, and him you have dismissed ! " If it 
will give her pleasure I should wear the martyr's crown," he 
cried, "I will embrace the thorns." I tell you — I am quite 
frank — I put the order in his power and begged him to 
resist. You, who have betrayed your husband, may betray 
me to Gondremark ; my Prince would betray no one. 
Understand it plainly, 'tis of his pure forbearance you sit 
there ; he had the power — I gave it to him — to change the 
parts ; and he refused, and went to prison in your place. 

Princess {with some distress). — Your violence shocks 
me and pains me, but I cannot be angry with what at least 



190 THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 

does honor to the mistaken kindness of your heart ; it was 
right for me to know this. I will condescend to tell you. 
It was our great misfortune, it was perhaps somewhat of my 
fault, that we were so unsuited to each other ; but I have 
a regard, a sincere regard, for all his qualities. As a private 
person I should think as you do. It is difficult, I know, to 
make allowances for state considerations. I have only with 
deep reluctance obeyed the call of a superior duty ; and so 
soon as I dare do it for the safety of the state, I promise 
you the Prince shall be released. Many in my situation 
would have resented your freedoms. I am not — (she looks 
rather piteously upon the Countess) — I am not altogether 
so inhuman as you think. 

Countess. — And you can put these troubles of the state 
to weigh with a man's love? 

Princess (with dignity}. — Madame von Rosen, these 
troubles are affairs of life and death to many; to the 
Prince, and perhaps even to yourself, among the number. 
I have learned madam, although still so young, in a hard 
school, that my own feelings must everywhere come last. 

Countess. — O callow innocence ! Is it possible you do 
not know, or do not suspect, the intrigue in which you 
move ? I find it in my heart to pity you ! We are both 
women, after all — poor girl, poor girl ! — and who is born a 
woman is born a fool. And though I hate all women — 
come, for the common folly, I forgive you. Your Highness 
(she drops a deep courtesy and resumes her fan), I am 
going to insult you, to betray one who is called my lover, 
and if it pleases you to use the power I now put unreservedly 
into your hands, to ruin my dear self. Oh, what a French 
comedy ! You betray, I betray, they betray. It is now 
my cue. The letter, yes, behold the letter, madam, its 
seal unbroken as I found it by my bed this morning ; for I 



THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 191 

was out of humor and I get many, too many, of these favors. 
For your own sake, for the sake of my Prince Charming, 
for the sake of this great municipality, that sits so heavy on 
your conscience, open it and read ! {She holds it to her.) 

Princess. — Am I to understand that this letter in any 
way regards me ? 

Countess. — You see I have not opened it; but 'tis mine, 
and I beg you to experiment. 

Princess {very seriously). — I cannot look at it till you 
have. There may be matter there not meant for me to 
see ; it is a private letter. {The Countess tears it open, 
glances it through, and tosses it on the table. The Princess 
takes it up, recognizes the handwriting of Gondremark, and 
reads with horror. ) " Dearest Anna, come at once. Ra- 
tafia has done the deed, her husband to be packed to 
prison. This puts the minx entirely in my power : the die 
is cast ; she will now go steady in harness, or I will know 
the reason why. Come. Heinrich." {The Princess sinks 
down, almost fainting.) 

Countess. — Command yourself, madam. It is in vain 
for you to fight with Gondremark; he has more strings 
than mere court favor, and could bring you down to-mor- 
row with a word. I would not have betrayed him other- 
wise ; but Heinrich is a man, and plays with all of you like 
marionettes. And now at least you see for what you sacri- 
ficed my Prince. — Madam, will you take some wine ? I 
have been cruel. 

Princess {with a faint smile). — Not cruel, madam — 
salutary. No, I thank you, I require no attentions. The 
first surprise affected me ; will you give me time a little ? 
I must think. {She holds her head in her hands and thinks 
tempestuously!) This information reaches me when I have 
need of it. I would not do as you have done, and yet I 



I92 THE PRINCESS AND THE COUNTESS. 

thank you. I have been much deceived in Baron Gondre- 
mark. 

Countess. — Oh, madam, leave Gond remark, and think 
upon the Prince ! 

Princess. — You speak once more as a private person, nor 
do I blame you. But my own thoughts are most distracted. 
However, as I believe you are truly a friend to my — to the 
— as I believe you are a friend to Otto, I shall put the 
order for his release into your hands this moment. Give 
me the ink. There ! {She writes hastily, steadying her 
trembling hand on the table.} Remember, madam (she 
hands the order), this must not be used nor spoken of at 
present ; till I have seen the Baron, any hurried step — I 
lose myself in thinking. The suddenness has shaken me. 

Countess. — I promise you I will not use it till you give 
me leave, although I wish the Prince could be informed of 
it, to comfort his poor heart. And, oh, I had forgotten, he 
has left a letter. Suffer me, madam ; I will bring it to you. 
This is the door, I think? {She goes to the side opposite 
her entrance a?id tries in vain to open the door.) 

Princess. — The bolt is pushed. 

Countess. — Oh, Oh ! 

Princess {after a silence) . — I will get it for myself, and 
in the meanwhile I beg you to leave me. I thank you, I 
am sure, but I shall be obliged if you will withdraw. {The 
Countess courtesies and withdraws^) 

CURTAIN. 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 



CHARACTERS. 

Catherine of Arragon, wife of Henry VIII. 

Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal, Prime Minister of Henry VIII. 
and Duke of York. 

Campeius, Cardinal and Legate from the Pope. 

A Gentleman in attendance upon the Queen. 

Some Women at work with the Queen. 

Situation. — Henry VIII. is about to put aside Queen 
Catherine in order to marry Anne Boleyn. He sends 
Cardinal Wolsey and the Pope's Legate, Cardinal 
Campeius, to obtain the Queen's acquiescence. The in- 
terview is stonny but successful. The Queen is in her 
own apartments with her women about her at work on 
embroidery or something of like nature. 

Enter a Gentleman. 

Catherine. — How now ! 

Gentleman. — An't please your Grace, the two great 
Cardinals 
Wait in the presence.* 

Catherine. — Would they speak with me? 

Gentleman. — They willed me say so, madam. 

* Presence lor presence-chamber, or reception room. 

13 193 



194 QUEEN CATHERINE. 

Catherine. — Pray their Graces 

To come near. (Exit Gentleman?) What can be their 

business 
With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favor? 
I do not like their coming, now I think on't. 
They should be good men ; their affairs are righteous ; 
But all hoods make not monks. 

Enter Wolsey and Campeius. 

Wolsey. — Peace to your Highness ! 

Catherine. — Your Graces find me here part of a house- 
wife : 
I would be all, against the worse may happen. 
What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords ? 

W t olsey. — May't please you, noble madam, to withdraw 
Into your private chamber, we shall give you 
The full cause of our corning. 

Catherine. — Speak it here ; 

There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, 
Deserves a corner : would all other women 
Could speak this with as free a soul as I do ! 
My lords, I care not — so much I am happy 
Above a number — if my actions 
Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em, 
Envy and base opinion set against 'em, 
I know my life so even. If your business 
Do seek me out and that way I am wife in, 
Out with it boldly ; truth loves open dealing. 

Wolsey. — Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina se* 
renissim a 

Catherine. — Oh, good my lord, no Latin ; 
I am not such a truant since my coming, 
As not to know the language I have lived in; 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 1 95 

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange-suspicious. 
Pray, speak in English : here are some will thank you, 
If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake \ 
Believe me, she has had much wrong : Lord Cardinal, 
The willing' st sin I ever yet committed 
May be absolved in English. 

Wolsey. — Noble lady, 

I'm sorry my integrity should breed 
So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant, 
And service to his Majesty and you. 
We come not by the way of accusation, 
To taint that honor every good tongue blesses, 
Nor to betray you any way to sorrow ; 
You have too much, good lady : but to know 
How you stand minded in the weighty difference 
Between the king and you ; and to deliver, 
Like free and honest men, our just opinions, 
And comforts to your cause. 

Campeius. — Most honor'd madam, 

My Lord of York, — out of his noble nature, 
Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace, — 
(Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure, 
Both of his truth and him, which was too far,) — 
Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace, {crosses himself.) 
His sendee and his counsel. 

Catherine {aside). — To betray me. — 
My lords, I thank you both for your good wills : 
Ye speak like honest men ; pray God, ye prove so ! 
But how to make ye suddenly an answer, 
In such a point of weight, so near mine honor, — 
More near my life, I fear, — with my weak wit, 
And to such men of gravity and learning, 
In truth, I know not. I was set at work 



196 QUEEN CATHERINE. 

Among my maids ; full little, God knows, looking 
Either for such men or such business. 
Let me have time and counsel for my cause : 
Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless. 

Wolsey. — Madam, you wrong the king's love with these 
fears ; 
Your hopes and friends are infinite. 

Catherine. — In England 

But little for my profit : can you think, lords, 
That any Englishman dare give me counsel? 
Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure, 
Though he be grown so desperate to be honest, — 
And live a subject ? Nay, forsooth, my friends, 
They that must weigh * out my afflictions, 
They that my trust must grow to, live not here — 
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, 
In mine own country, lords. 

Campeius. — I would your Grace 

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. 

Catherine. — How, sir? 

Campeius. — Put your main cause into the king's protec- 
tion ; 
He's loving and most gracious ; 'twill be much 
Both for your honor better and your cause ; 
For if the trial of the law o'er take ye, 
You'll part away disgraced. 

Wolsey. — He tells you rightly. 

Catherine. — Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruin : 
Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye ! 
Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a judge 
That no king can corrupt. 

* Weigh out, that is, consider my afflictions. 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 197 

Campeius. — Your rage mistakes us. 

Catherine. — The more shame for ye: holy men I 
thought ye, 
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ; 
But cardinal sins and hollow hearts, I fear ye : 
Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort? 
The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady, 
A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd? 
I will not wish ye half my miseries ; 
I have more charity : but say, I warn'd ye ; 
Take heed, for Heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once 
The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. 

Wolsey. — Madam, this is a mere distraction ; 
You turn the good we offer into envy.* 

Catherine. — Ye turn me into nothing : woe upon ye, 
And all such false professors ! 
Have I lived thus long (let me speak myself, 
Since virtue finds no friends) a wife, a true one? 
A woman — I dare say, without vain glory — 
Never yet branded with suspicion? 
Bring me a constant woman to her husband, 
One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure ; 
And to that woman, when she has done most, 
Yet will I add an honor, — a great patience. 

Wolsey. — Madam, you wander from the good we aim at. 

Catherine. — My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, 
To give up willingly that noble title 
Your master wed me to : nothing but death 
Shall e'er divorce my dignities. 

Wolsey {tries to interrupt her) . — Pray, hear me 

Catherine. — Would I had never trod this English earth, 

* Envy, for malice. 



I98 QUEEN CATHERINE. 

Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! 

Ye've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts. 

What will become of me now, wretched lady ! 

I am the most unhappy woman living. — {She turns to he?' 

women and kisses them fondly.} 
Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? 
Shipwrecked upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me ; 
Almost no grave allow'd me : like the lily, 
That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd, 
I'll hang my head and perish. 

Wolsey. — If your Grace 

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, 
You'd feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady, 
Upon what cause, wrong you ? Alas, our places, 
The way of our profession is against it : 
We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em. 
For goodness' sake, consider what you do : } 
How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly 
Grow from the king's acquaintance, by this carriage. 
The hearts of princes kiss obedience, 
So much they love it ; but to stubborn spirits 
They swell, and grow as terrible as storms. 
I know you have a gentle, noble temper, 
A soul as even as a calm : pray, think us 
Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants. 

Campeius. — Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your 
virtues 
With these weak women's fears : a noble spirit 
As yours was put into you, ever casts 
Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves you ; 
Beware you lose it not : for us, if please you, 
To trust us in your business, we are ready 



QUEEN CATHERINE. 1 99 

To use our utmost studies in your service. 

Catherine. — Do what ye will, my lords : and, pray, for- 
give me, 
If I have used myself unmannerly ; 
You know I am a woman, lacking wit 
To make a seemly answer to such persons. 
Pray, do my service to his Majesty : 
He has my heart yet ; and shall have my prayers 
While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, 
Bestow your counsels on me : she now begs, 
That little thought, when she set footing here, 
She should have bought her dignities so dear. ( 734* Queen 
goes out, followed by the two Cardinals, and then 
the women.) 



DEACON BRODIE 



Adapted from a play by W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson, entitled " Deacon 
Brodie, or the Double Life." 



CHARACTERS. 

William Brodie, called Beacon, that is Master, of the Car- 
penters. 

William Lawson, a Justice of the Law, Brodie } s Uncle. 

Walter Leslie, a young man engaged to marry Brodie } s 
sister. 

Mary Brodie, sister of the Deacon. 

Jean Watt, the secret wife of the Deacon. 

Hunt, a special police officer. 

Situation. — Deacon Brodie by day appears to be an in- 
dustrious and skilled carpenter, but at night is the ex- 
pert of a gang of housebreakers. On this particular 
night he has retired early, locked his door, changed his 
clothes, jumped out of his window and joined the gang. 
His old father has died in his absence, and his sistei 
and the Doctor have forced his door, only to find the 
room empty and window open. One of the gang has 
proved treacherous and Brodie has stabbed him, and 
then hurried home expecting to prove an alibi through 
his sister and his closed room. 

The night before the murder, Brodie has been caught 
by Lawson and Leslie in a burglary and has promised to 
fly from the country and begin a new life across the 
200 



DEACON BRODIE. 201 

ocean. He has this in mind in his last words, but 
the meaning shifts to the M land of the hereafter." 

There should be a table on the platform, a lamp or 
candle at hand, and by supposition there is the open 
window through which Brodie enters, and the broken 
door through which all the others come in. 

The platform or stage should be dark as the curtai?i 
is drawn ; only light enough to see the Deacon crawl in 
through the window. After a few sentences he lights a 
a candle himself. 

Enter Brodie through the window. 
Brodie (after a pause and a sigh). — Saved ! And the 
alibi ! Man, but you've been near it this time — near the 
rope, near the rope. Ah, boy, it was your neck ; your 
neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon 
me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for 
heaven ! Saved ! The dog that sold me, I settled him ; 
and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will 
stand ! Is the window fast? (He returns to it, closes and 
carefully locks it.) The neighbors must not see the Deacon, 
the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o' night. 

— Ay, the good old room in the good, cosy old house 

and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. (He lights the can- 
dles.) — Your hand shakes, sir? Fie ! And you saved, and 
you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after 
all? (He takes off his belt and lays it on the table.) Ay, it 
was a near touch. Will it come to the dock?* If it does ! 
You've a tongue, and you've a head, and you've an alibi ; 
and your alibi will stand. (He takes off his coat, takes out 
the dagger, and makes a gesture of sty-iking.) Home ! He 
fell without a sob. " He breaketh them against the bosses 
*Will it come to trial in court. 



202 DEACON BRODIE. 

of his buckler !" (He lays the dagger on the table?) Your 

alibi ah Deacon, that's your life ! your alibi, your 

alibi. (He takes up a candle and turns towards the door.) 

O ! Open, open, open ! Judgment of God, the door is 

open! 

Enter Mary Brodie. 

Brodie. — Did you open the door? 

Mary. — I did. 

Brodie. — You you opened the door? 

Mary. — I did open it. 

Brodie. — Were you alone ? 

Mary. — I was not. The servant was with me ; and the 
doctor. 

Brodie. — O the servant and the doctor. Very 

true. Then it's all over the town by now. The servant and 
the doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor? 

Mary. — My father is dead. O Will, where have you 
been? 

Brodie. — Your father is dead. O yes ! He's dead, is 

he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right How did you 

open the door? It's strange, I bolted it. 

Mary. — We could not help it, Will, now could we ? The 
doctor forced it. He had to, had he not ? 

Brodie. — The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he 
here? He forced it? He? 

Mary. — We did it for the best ; it was I who did it 

I, your own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you 
been? You have not been in any harm, any danger? 

Brodie. — Danger? O my young lady, you have taken 
care of that. It's not danger now, it's death. Death? Ah ! 
Death ! Death ! Death ! (He clutches the table ; and then 
recovers as from a dream.) Death? Did you say my 
father was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old 



DEACON BRODIE. 203 

father ! Is he dead, Mary? Have Host him? is he gone? 
O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was ! 

Mary. — Dearest, he is in heaven. 

Brodie. — Did he suffer? 

Mary. — He died like a child. Your name it was his 

last. 

Brodie. — My name ? Mine ? O Mary, if he had known 1 

He knows now. He knows ; he sees us now sees me ! 

Ay, and sees you, left how lonely ! 

Mary. — Not so, dear ; not while you live. Wherever you 
are, I shall not be alone, so you live. 

Brodie. — While I live? I? The old house is ruined, 
and the old master dead, and I ! O Mary, try and be- 
lieve I did not mean that it should come to this ; try and 
believe that I was only weak at first. At first? And now ! 
The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the innocent 

boy fallen, fallen ! You will be quite alone ; all your 

old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The 

night (in despair} it waits for me. You will be quite 

alone. 

Mary {with a shudder) . — The night ! 

Brodie. — Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, 
and the old man just dead ! Mary, I was the boy you knew ; 

I loved pleasure, I was weak ; I have fallen low lower 

than you think. A beginning is so small a thing ! I never 
dreamed it would come to this this hideous last night. 

Mary. — Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the 
truth the kind truth at once in pity. 

Brodie. — Crime. I have fallen. Crime. 

Mary. — Crime ? (She draws away from him in horror!) 

Brodie. — Don't shrink from me, Miserable dog that I 
am, selfish hound that has dragged you to this misery 



you and all that loved him think only of my torments, 



204 DEACON BRODIE. 

think only of my penitence, don't shrink from me. 

Mary. — I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not 
mind ; you are my brother. What do I care ? How can I 
help you? 

Brodie. — Help ? help me ? You would not speak of it, 
nor wish it, if you knew. My kind good sister, my little 
playmate, my sweet friend ! Was I ever unkind to you till 
yesterday? Not openly unkind? you'll say that when I'm 
gone. 

Mary. — If you have done wrong, what do I care ? If 
you have failed, does it change my twenty years of love and 
worship ? Never ! 

Brodie. — Yet I must make her understand ! 

Mary. — I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I 
will never leave you, I will never blame you. Come ! (She 
appi-oaches to embrace him.) 

Brodie (recoiling). — No, don't touch me, not a finger, 
not that, anything but that ! 

Mary.— Willie, Willie ! 

Brodie (he takes the bloody dagger from the table). — See, 
do you understand that? 

Mary (hot rifled). — Ah ! What, what is it? 

Brodie. — Blood. I have killed a man. 

Mary. — You? 

Brodie. — I am a murderer ; I was a thief before. Your 
brother the old man's only son ! 

Mary (turning aiu ay from him and 'calling for her love r). — 
Walter, Walter, come to me ! 

Brodie. — Now you see that I must die ; now you see 
that I stand upon the grave's edge, all my lost life behind 
me, like a horror to think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream 
that is past. And you, you are alone. Father, brother, 
they are gone from you ; one to heaven, one ! 



DEACON F.RODIE. 205 

Mary {she has turned towards him again). — Hush, dear, 
hush 1 Kneel, pray; it is not too .ate to repent. Think of 
your father, dear ; repent. (She weeps and says with an 
appealing gesture.) O Willie, darling boy, repent and join 
us. 

Enter Lawson, Leslie and Jean. 

Lawson. — She kens a', thank the guid Lord ! 

Brodie {to Mary). — I know you forgive me now, I ask 
no more. (Indicating Leslie.) That is a good man. (To 
Leslie) Will you take her from my hands ? (Leslie takes her.) 
Jean, are ye here to see the end? 

Jean. — Eh man, can ye no fly? Could ye no say that it 
was me? 

Brodie. — No, Jean, this is where it ends. L ncle, this is 
where it ends. And to think that not an hour ago I still 
had hopes ! Hopes ! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a 
new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, you must 
try to forgive me you, too. 

Leslie. — You are her brother. 

Brodie (to Lawson). — And you? 

Lawson. — My name-chiid and my sister's bairn ! 

Brodie. — You won't forget Jean, will you? nor the child? 

Lawson. — That I wiil not. 

Mary. — O Willie, nor I. 

Enter Hunt. 

Hunt. — The game's up, Deacon. I'll trouble you to 
come along with me. 

Brodie (behind the table, while Hunt is near the door) . — 
One moment, officer : I have a word to say before witnesses 
ere I go. In all this there is but one man guilty ; and that 
man is I. Xone else has sinned : none else must suffer. 
This poor woman (pointing to Jea?i) I have used ; she never 



206 DEACON BRODIE. 

understood. Mr. Justice, that is my dying confession. (He 
snatches his dagger from the table, rushes at Hirnt who par- 
ries and runs him through. He reels across the stage and 
falls.) The new life the new life ! (He dies.) 

THE END. 

Note. — Another ending would be for Brodie to take a small bot- 
tle of poison from his pocket or from the table and as he drank it, 
have Hunt, with a kind of curse that his victim was thus escaping 
him, stride and lunge toward him. He would sink down as before. 

This saves the extremely difficult fencing to kill on the stage. 



PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 



Adapted from " Pizarro," a play by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 



CHARACTERS. 

Pizarro, a cruel^ Spanish conquei'or. 

Rolla, a valiant, gentle, daring Peruvian chief. 

Elvira, wife of Pizarro, ambitious, bold and haughty. 

Situation. — Pizarro and the Spanish troops have fought 
with the Peruvians under Rolla and Alonzo (a 
Spaniard who has gone over to the Peruvians because 
he does not believe i?i the slaughter of this i?inocent 
people), and have made Alonzo pr is one7 . Rolla has 
with the aid of Elvira has rescued Alonzo. Elvira, 
whose love for Pizarro has turned to hatred on account 
of his cruelty, introduces Rolla i?ito the tent of the 
sleeping Pizarro. She gives him a dagger to slay his 
enemy with. Just here the following scene comes. 

Pizarro is on a couch in disturbed sleep. 

Pizarro (in his sleep). — No mercy, traitor! — Now at 
his heart ! — Stand off there, you ! — Let me see him bleed ! 
Ha ! ha 1 ha ! — Let me hear that groan again. 

Enter Rolla and Elvira. 

Elvira. — There ! Now lose not a minute. 
Rolla. — You must leave me now. This scene of blood 
fits not a woman's presence. 

207 



208 PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 

Elvira. — But a moment's pause may — 

Rolla. — Go, retire to your own tent, and return not 

here 1 will come to you. Be thou not known in this 

business, I implore you ! 

Elvira. — I will withdraw the guard that waits. (She 
goes out.) 

Rolla. — Now have I in my power the accursed des- 
troyer of my country's peace : yet tranquilly he rests. 
God ! can this man sleep? 

Pizarro (in his sleep). — Away! away! hideous fiends! 
Tear not my bosom thus ! 

Rolla. — No I was in error — the balm of sweet repose 
he never more can know. Look here, ambition's fools I 
ye by whose inhuman pride the bleeding sacrifice of nations 
is held as nothing, behold the rest of the guilty! He is at 
my mercy — and one blow ! — No ! my heart and hand re- 
fuse the act : Rolla cannot be an assassin ! Yet Elvira 
must be saved ! (He approaches the couch.) Pizarro ! 
awake ! 

Pizarro (he starts up). — Who? — Guard ! 

Rolla. — Speak not — another word is thy death. Call 
not for aid ! this arm will be swifter than thy guard. 

Pizarro. — Who art thou? and what is thy will? 

Rolla. — I am thine enemy. Peruvian Rolla ! Thy 
death is not my will, or I could have slain thee sleeping. 

Pizarro. — Speak, what else? 

Rolla. — Now thou art at my mercy, answer me ! Did 
a Peruvian ever yet wrong or injure thee, or any of 
thy nation ? Didst thou, or any of thy nation, ever yet 
show mercy to a Peruvian in thy power? Now shalt thou 
feel, and if thou hast a heart thou'lt feel it keenly, a Peru- 
vian's vengeance ! (He drops the dagger at his feet.) 
There ! 



PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 209 

Pizarro. — Is it possible ? (He walks aside dum/ounded.) 
Rolla. — Can Pizarro be surprised at this? I thought 

forgiveness of injuries had been the Christian's precept. 

Thou seest, at least, it is the Peruvian's practice. 

Pizarro. — Rolla, thou hast indeed surprised — subdued 

me. (He walks again apart irresolutely.} 

Re-enter Elvira, not seeing Pizarro. 

Elvira. — Is it done? Is he dead? (She sees Pizarro.) 
How, still living ! Then I am lost ! And for you, wretched 
Peruvians ! mercy is no more ! O Rolla : treacherous or 
-cowardly ? 

Pizarro {amazed at presence of Elvira). — How ! can it 
be that 

Rolla. — Away! — (To Pizarro.) Elvira speaks she 
knows not what — (To Elvira.) — Leave me, I conjure you, 
with Pizarro. 

Elvira. — How ! Rolla dost thou think I shall retract? 
or that I meanly will deny that in thy hand I placed a 
poignard to be plunged into that tyrant's heart? No : my 
sole regret is, that I trusted to thy weakness, and did not 
strike the blow myself. Too soon thou' It learn that mercy 
to that man is direct cruelty to all thy race. 

Pizarro. — Guard ! quick ! a guard, to seize this frantic 
woman. 

Elvira. — Yes, a guard ! I call them too ! And soon I 
know they'll lead me to my death. But think not, Pizarro, 
the fury of thy flashing eyes shall awe me for a moment. 
Though defeated and destroyed, as now I am, I shall perish 
glorying in the attempt — to have rescued millions of in- 
nocents from the blood-thirsty tyranny of one — by ridding 
the insulted world of thee. 

Rolla. — Had the act been noble as the motive, Rolla 
would not have shrunk from its performance. 



2IO PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 

Enter Guards. 

Pizarro. — Seize this discovered fiend, who sought to kill 
your leader. 

Elvira. — Touch me not, at the peril of your souls : I 
am your prisoner, and will follow you. But thou, their 
triumphant leader, first shall hear me. 

Pizarro. — Why am I not obeyed ? Tear her hence ! 

Elvira. — 'Tis past — but didst thou know my story Rolla, 
thou wouldst pity me. 

Rolla. — From my soul I do pity thee. 

Pizarro. — Villains ! drag her to the dungeon ! — prepare 
the torture instantly. 

Elvira. — Soldiers, but a moment more — 'tis to applaud 
your general. It is to tell the astonished world that for 
once, Pizarro's sentence is an act of justice : yes, rack me 
with the sharpest tortures that ever agonized the human 
frame, it will be justice. Yes, bid the minions of thy fury 
wrench forth the sinews of those arms that have caressed — 
and even have defended thee ! And when thou shalt bid 
them tear me to my death, hoping that thy unshrinking 
ears may at last be feasted with the music of my cries, I 
will not utter one shriek or groan ; but to the last gasp my 
body's patience shall deride thy vengeance, as my soul 
defies thy powers. 

Pizarro. — Hearest thou the wretch whose hands were 
even now prepared for murder ? 

Rolla. — Yes ! and if her accusation's false, thou wilt not 
shrink from hearing her • if true, thy barbarity cannot make 
her suffer the pangs thy conscience will inflict on thee. 

Elvira. — And now, farewell, world ! — Rolla, farewell ! — 
farewell (to Pizarro) thou condemned of heaven ! for re- 
pentance and remorse, I know will never touch thy heart. — 
We shall meet again — Ha ! be it thy horror here to know 



PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 21. 

that we shall meet hereafter ! To me the thought is mad- 
ness ! — what will it be to thee? 

Pizarro. — A moment's more delay 

Elvira. — I have spoken. I go to meet my destiny. 
That I could not live nobly, has been Pizarro's act; that I 
will die nobly, shall be my own. {She goes out guarded.) 

Pizarro. — Rolla, I would not thou, a warrior, valiant 
and renowned shouldst credit the vile tales of this frantic 
woman. The cause of all this fury — oh ! a passion for the 
rebel youth, Alonzo, now my prisoner. 

Rolla. — Alonzo is not now thy prisoner. 

Pizarro. — How ? 

Rolla. — I came to rescue him — to deceive the guard. 
I have succeeded ; I remain thy prisoner. 

Pizarro. — Alonzo fled ! Is then the vengeance dearest 
to my heart never to be gratified? 

Rolla. — Dismiss such passions from thy heart, then 
thou'lt consult its peace. 

Pizarro. — I can face all enemies that dare confront 
me — I cannot war against my nature. 

Rolla. — Then, Pizarro, ask not to be deemed a hero : to 
triumph o'er ourselves is the only conquest where fortune 
makes no claim. 

Pizarro. — Peruvian, thou shalt not find me to thee un- 
grateful or ungenerous. Return to your countrymen — you 
are at liberty. 

Rolla. — Thou dost act in this as honor and as duty bid 
thee. 

Pizarro. — I cannot but admire thee, Rolla : I would we 
might be friends. 

Rolla. — Farewell ! pity Elvira ! become the friend of 
virtue — and thou wilt be mine. (He goes out.) 

Pizarro. — Ambition! tell me what, is the phantom I 



212 PIZARRO AND ROLLA. 

have followed? Where is the one delight which it has 
made my own? My fame is the mark of envy, my love 
the dupe of treachery, my revenge defeated and rebuked by 
the rude horror of a savage foe, before wnose native dignity 
of soul I have sunk confounded and subdued. I would I 
could retrace my steps — I cannot. Would I could evade 
my own reflections ! No, thought and memory are my 
hell ! {He goes out) 

CURTAIN, 



RAIMOND RELEASED. 



Adapted from " The Vespers of Palermo," by Mrs. Hemans. 



CHARACTERS. 

Raimond, a vigorous young man, of frank, generous counte- 
nance. 

Anselmo, a priest of middle age. 

Vittoria, an elderly woman of very queenly bearing. 

Situation. — The death of Conradin, king of Sicily, at the 
invasion by the French, prevented Vittoria from mar- 
rying him and made her an i?isatiate hater of the French 

who then ruled the island. After many years the father 
of Raimond heads some patriots who 1-egain control of 
Sicily. Raimond nobly 7-efuses to slaughter luithout 
warning, even his ene?nies. He is found guilty of 
treason and cast into piison to be killed the next 
day ; but the French reappear before the gates of 
Palermo, and just here co?nes the scene following. It 
is in the prison. Anselmo comes to give him ghostly 
counsel. Vittoria searches for Anselmo and finds 
hi?n in the prison cell. Raimond is released to call the 
Sicilia?is back to their duty. 

Raimond and Anselmo. 
Raimond. — And Constance,* then, is safe! — Heaven 
bless thee, father ! 

* With whom Raimond is in love. 

213 



214 RAIMOND RELEASED. 

Good angels bear such comfort. 

Anselmo. — All that faith 

Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes ; 
And still whate'er betide, the light of Heaven 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son, 
Is thy young spirit master'd and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change ? 

Raimond. — Ay, father ! of my brief remaining task 
The least part is to die ! — It was my hope 
To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds, 
Into the far hereafter ; there to be 
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb 
Murmuring — Awake ! Arise ! — But this is past ! 
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame, 
To sleep forgotten in the dust — but now 
Oh, God ! — the undying record of my grave 
Will be — Here sleeps a traitor ! — One whose crime, 
Was — to deem brave men might find nobler weapons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ! 

Anselmo. — Oh, my son, 

Subdue these troubled thoughts ! Thou wouldst not change 
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark streams will hang 
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Raimond. — Thou'rt right — Would th' hour 

To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand ! 

Anselmo. — It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard— 
But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. — The foe hath reached 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior-men, are marshall'd, and gone forth 



RAIMOND RELEASED. 215 

In that high hope which makes realities, 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 

RAIMOND (starting up). — They are gone forth! my 
father leads them on ! 
All — all Palermo's youth ! — No ! one is left, 
Shut out from glory's race ! They are gone forth ! — 
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad, 
It burns upon the air ! — And such things are 
Even now — and I am here ! 

Anselmo. — Alas, be calm ! 

To the same grave ye press — thou that dost pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raimond. — Yet not the same ; 

Their graves who fall in this day's fight, will be 

As altars to 

ViTTORiA rushes in wnaly, as if pursued. 

Vittoria. — Anselmo ! art thou found ? 
Haste, haste, or all is lost ! Perchance thy voice, 
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, 
Or shame them back to die. 

Anselmo. — The fugitives ! 

What words are these ! — The sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe ? 

Vittoria. — That I should say 

It is too true ! 

Anselmo. — And thou — thou bleedest, lady ! 

Vittoria. — Peace, heed not me, when Sicily is lost ! 
I stood upon the walls and watched, — when, lo ! 
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals 
To join th' invader's host. 

Raimond. — His country's curse 

Best on the slave for ever ! 



2l6 RAIM0ND RELEASED. 

Vittoria. — Then distrust 

E'en of their noble leaders, and dismay 
That swift contagion, on Palermo's lands 
Came like a deadly blight. They fled ! — Oh, shame ! 

Raimond. — And I am here / Shall there be power, O 
God! 
In the roused energies of fierce despair, 
To burst my heart — and not to rend my chains? 
Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vittoria (she has been gazing earnestly at him during 
this speech), — Why, 'twere a deed 
Worthy the fame and blessing of all time, 
To loose thy bonds — for from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul ! — Arise ! Go forth ! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste ; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit still prevail, 
Ere I depart — for the strong hand of death 
Is on me now. {She sinks back against a pillar?) 

Anselmo. — O Heaven ! the life-blood streams 
Fast from thy heart — thy troubled eyes grow dim. 
Who hath done this? 

Vittoria. — Before the gates I stood, 

And in the name of him, the loved and lost, 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe, 
Fraught with my summons, to his viewlesss home, 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Anselmo. — Yet, oh yet, 

It may not be too late. (He shouts.) Help, help ! 

Vittoria. — Away ! 

Bright is the hour which brings me liberty ! 



RAIMOND RELEASED. 21 7 

Attendants enter. 

Haste, be those fetters riven ! — Unbar the gates, 

And set the captive free ! {They hesitate.) Know ye not 

her 
Who would have worn your country's diadem? 

Attendants. — Oh ! lady, we obey. {They take off Rai- 
mond's chains.) 

Raimond {springing up). — Is this no dream? 
And am I free? — Now for bright arms of proof, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vittoria. — Away, be strong ! 

And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, 
Be — Conradin. {He rushes out.) Oh ! for one hour of 

life, 
To hear that name blent with th* exulting shout 
Of victory ! It will not be ! — A mightier power 
Doth summon me away. 

Anselmo. — To purer worlds 

Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vittoria. — Yes ! he is there 

All glorious in his beauty ! — Conradin ! 
Death parted us — and death shall reunite ! 
He will not stay — it is all darkness now ! 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. {She dies.) 

Anselmo. She is gone ! 

It is an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, Heaven ! {He 
kneels beside her.) 

CURTAIN. 



MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 



Adapted from " The Story of a Governess," by Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant. 



CHARACTERS. 

John Harding, a powerful, kindly intelligent man of middle 
age, physician from Liverpool. 

Adolphus Harwood, an old man with pale face and long 
white beard and hair — insane over business irregular- 
ities. 

Dolff Harwood, his son, a large, rather dull young man of 

obstinate character. 
Charles Meredith, a bright handsome man who is to be 

mai'ried to Gussy Harwood. 

Vicars, valet to Mr. Harwood, a strong brusque man. 

Mrs. Julia Harwood, an old lady, so paralyzed she can 
scarcely walk, and has to be wheeled about in a chair. 

Gussy Harwood, her eldest daughter. 

Julia Harwood, her youngest child. 

Janet Summerhayes, governess to Julia — about to be 
married to Dr. Harding. 

Situation. — Mrs. Harwood for years has kept her husband 
Adolphus Harwood, now hopelessly insane, in a sup- 
posedly unoccupied wing of her house. By accident 
the family discovers the secret of the wing, but they do 

218 



MRS. HARWOOD S SECRET. 219 

not know that the insanity has beliind it dishonest 
financial operations, Janet, Julia's governess^ anxious 

to get away from so much horror, remembers Dr. 

Harding, whose hand she rejected six months ago, and 

sends him a note of acceptance. Dr. Harding hastens 
from Liverpool to claim her as his btide. He is greatly 

surprised to discover that Adolphus Harwood, who 

victimized him years before, still lives. His sense of 
justice dominates him, but the sight of the piteous figure 

of the white-haired old man changes his resolution, 

and he departs — with his bride-to-be. 

Scene I. 

Mr. Harwood enters followed closely by his valet, Vicars ; 
then enter Meredith and Gussy, Dolff and Julia. 

Mr. Harwood (in the centre of platform). — I know what 
you've come for. I can pay up ! I can pay up ! I've 
plenty of money, and I can pay up ! But I won't be taken, 
not if it costs me my life. 

Vicars (behind him, holding his arms). — Come, sir; 
come, sir, no more of this; they'll take you for a fool. 

Mrs. Harwood staggers in, pushing Janet before her. 

Mrs. Harwood. — Take him back to his room, Vicars ; 
take him back. Adolphus! (She stands erect in front of 
the ma?iiac arid puts her hand on his breast.) Adolphus, 
go back, be silent, calm yourself. There is no need for 
you to say anything. I am here to take care of you. Let 
Vicars lead you back to your room. 

Mr. Harwood. — I will not be taken, I will not be taken ! 
I can pay up ! I have got money, plenty of money. I 
will pay up ! (He struggles in vain to free himself from the 
grasp of Vicars.) Vicars, get it out, and give it to your 
mistress. The money — the money, you know, to pay 



220 MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 

everybody up. Only (he looks to Mrs. Harwoodwho stands 
leaning on the table, and he clasps his hands and whimpers) 
don't — don't let them take me away ! 

Gussy (falling on her knees and covering her face with 
her hands). — Oh, mamma, I can't bear it — I can't bear it. 

Dolff (stepping fo?'ward and speaking roughly). — Who is 
he ? I know nothing about this, nothing. (He looks round.) 
I hope everybody will believe me. I want to know who 
he is. (Janet quietly slips out.) 

Mrs. Harwood (She pays no attention to any but Vicars 
and the insane man. Vicars takes a7i old, large pocket- 
book from an inside pocket of his patient and hands it to 
her with a smile. She takes it and tosses it on the table). — 
There are in this pocket-book old scraps of paper of no 
value. This is what I am to pay his debts with. He has 
given it to me twenty times before. I get tired in the end 
of playing the old game over and over. 

Dolff. — Mother, who is he? You have had him in 
your house in secret, never seeing the light of day, and I, 
your son, never knew. Who is he? 

Vicars (struggling with Mr. Harwood) . — I can answer 
for nothing, Mrs. Harwood, if you keep him with a lot of 
folks. He is working himself up into a fury again. 

Mr. Harwood (twisting about). — She has got my money, 
and she throws it down for anybody to pick up. My 
money ! there's money there to pay everything. Why 
don't you pay these people and let 'em go — pay them, pay 
them and let them go ! or else give me back my money. 
(He struggles, his eyes blaze.) 

Mrs. Harwood (she takes up the pocket-book, balances it 
a mo7iient and hands it to Vicar). — You think there may 
be a fortune here — enough to pay? And he thinks so. 
Give it to him, Vicars. We've tried to keep it all quiet, 



MRS. HARWOOD S SECRET. 22 1 

but it seems to have failed. Take him back to his apart- 
ments, Vicars. 

Mr. Harwood (he holds pocket-book in both hands and 
kisses it again and again). — As long as I have got this they 
can do nothing to me. ( Vicars takes him out.) 

Gussy (stepping up to Mrs. Harwood). — Mamma shall 
we go away? Whatever there may be to be said or ex- 
plained, it cannot be done now. If any wrong has been 
done him, I don't know of it. I thought it was nothing 
but good. 

Mrs. Harwood (losing her self command and her 
strength). — No wrong has been done him — none — none. 
Children you may not believe me, since I've kept it secret 
from you. There has been no wrong to him — none — none. 
Everything has been done for him. Look at his room and 
you will see. 

Dolff (obstinately). — Who is he? 

Mrs. Harwood. — You have no thought of me. You see 
me standing here, come here to defend you all, in despera- 
tion for you, and you never ask how I am to get back to 
my chair, whether it will kill me — (they start away). No, 
no, Janet has gone, who was a stranger and asked no ques- 
tions, but only helped a poor woman half mad with trouble 
and distress. — Ah ! he could go mad and get free — he who 
was the cause of it all \ but I have had to keep my sanity 
and my courage and bear it all, and look as if nothing was 
the matter for fifteen years. For whom ? For you, chil- 
dren, to give you a happy life, to do away with all disgrace, 
to give you every advantage. — Now go away all of you. 
( Gussy and Meredith go out, while Julia offers her mother 
her arm.) Yes, I'll take your arm, Julia : you have not 
been a good child, but you know no better. Get me to my 
chair before I drop down, for I am very heavy 



22 2 MRS. HARWOOD S SECRET. 

Dolff {stolidly), — lam not a boy any longer. You have 
made me a man. Who is it you have been hiding for years 
upstairs ? 

Mrs. Harwood ( with a little fierce laugh). — For my 
pleasure, for my amusement, as anybody may see. 

Dolff. — Whether it is for your amusement or not, I am of 
age, and I have a right to know who is living in my house. 

Mrs. Harwood.— In your house ! {Excitedly.) He has 
neither been tried, nor sentenced, nor anything proved 
against him. All that has to be gone through, before he 
can be put aside. And at this moment everything's his — 
the roof that covers you, the money you have been spend- 
ing. It is no more your house — your house 1 — than it is 
Julia's. It is your father's house. 

Dolff {aghast). — My father is dead. 

Mrs. Harwood. — Yes, and might have remained so, had 
it not been for your cowardly folly and Vicars' infatuation 
for you. Had he not sense to see that a fool like you 
would spoil it all? 

Dolff. — You are dreaming, you are mad, you are telling 
me another lie. 

Julia. — How dare you speak to her like that? I should 
be ashamed to look any one in the face. Go away, go away, 
and leave us quiet. {He goes out, and Julia helps her 
mother slowly out) 

Scene II. 

Mrs. Harwood is seated in her invalid ' s chair a little to one 
side of the centre of the platform ; beyond her is Julia. 
Enter from opposite side Dr. Harding with Janet on 
his arm. 
Mrs. Harwood. — Why, Janet ! 

Janet {falteringly). — I have brought an old friend to see 
you. 



MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 223 

Dr. Harding. — John Harding, at your service, Mrs. 
Harwood, now as long ago. 

Mrs. Harwood {greatly dismayed}. — Oh ! 

Janet. — Dr. Harding has come to take me away with him. 

Dr. Harding. — Yes, Janet has at last consented to make 
me happy and we shall be married immediately. 

Mrs. Harwood {she whispers aside to Julia.} — Don't let 
Dolff come in here. 

Julia {aloud}. — Why not? {Her mother merely pushes 
her away.} 

Mrs. Harwood. — Things have changed very much for us 
all ; I have a daughter on the eve of marriage, like you, Dr. 

Harding a man who does not marry keeps so much 

longer young. You may remember my Gussy as a child 

Dr. Harding. — I remember my little wife that is to be 
as a child, and she might well have despised an old fellow. 
Yes, things have changed. It was very good for me as it 
turns out that I could not go on in my old way. I've been 
a hardworking man, and kept very close to it for a long 
time, and now things are mending with me. I shall be 
able to give this little thing what they all like — a carriage 
and finery and all that. I am going back — to the old 
place, Mrs. Harwood 

Mrs. Harwood (with a start}. — To Liverpool. 

Dr. Harding. — Yes, to Liverpool ; they had heard of me, 
it appears, and then some of the old folks remembered I 
was a townsman. You have not kept up much connection 
with the old place, Mrs. Harwood. 

Mrs. Harwood. — None at all ; you may suppose it would 
not be very pleasant for me. 

Dr. Harding. — Perhaps not (he drums a little with his 
finger on his knee} ; and yet I don't know why, for there 
was always a great deal of sympathy with you. 



2 24 M ^S. HAR WOOD'S SECRET. 

Mrs. Harwood (nervously and eagerly), — Dr. Harding, 
may I ask you a favor? It is, please, not to speak of me 
to any of my old friends. You may think it strange — there 

is nobody else in the room, is there, Janet? but I would 

rather the children did not know more than is necessary 
about the past. 

Dr. Harding (bluntly). — I understand; and I honor you, 
madam. 

Mrs. Harwood (hurriedly). — I ask for no honor, so long 
as it is thought that I have done my duty by the children. 

Dr. Harding. — I should think there could not be much 
doubt of that. 

After a moment of silence, enter Dolff, followed closely 

by Julia. 

Mrs. Harwood (recovering from a feeling of despair at 
sight of Dolff).— My son, Dr. Harding. Dolff, Dr. Hard- 
ing is a friend of Janet's and — and an old acquaintance 
of mine. 

Dr. Harding (rising and giving the young man his 
hand). — I did not know your son was grown up. I thought 
he was the youngest. 

Mrs. Harwood. — No, it is Julia who is the youngest. 

Dr» Harding (heartily). — It is quite curious to find my- 
self among old friends. I expected to find only my little 
Janet, and here I am surrounded by people whom I knew 
in the old days in Liverpool before she was born. 

Dolff. — But we have nothing to do with Liverpool. 

Mrs. Harwood. — Welsh. 

Dr. Harding. — Ah, yes, by origin ; the little property's 
there, is'nt it? But Harwood has been a well-known name 
in Liverpool for longer than any of us can recollect. I re- 
member (sadly) when it was talked of like the Bank of 
England. 



.MRS. HARWOODS SECRET, 225 

Mrs. HARWOOD {with a great effort at self control, sitting 
bolt upright}. — Oh, I am not fond of those old recollections \ 
they always lead to something sad. 

Dolff. — This is very interesting to me for I never heard 
of it before. My mother has told us very little, Dr. Hard- 
ing 1 I should be very grateful for a little information. 

Dr. Harding. — My dear young fellow, I daresay your 
mother's very wise. Least said is soonest mended. That's 
all over and done with. It all went to pieces, you know, 
when your father (lie is embarrassed for a moment*) — when 
your father — died. (Mrs. Harwood sinks baclz with a long 
breath almost swooning I) 

Dolff. — If you think that this is satisfactory to me, you 
are making an immense mistake. Why should least said be 
soonest mended? Is there any disgrace belonging to our 
name ? Besides, my father is not dead. 

Dr. Harding (jumping from his chair as if stung). — 
What? What? Adolphus Harwood not dead? My God ! 
Adolphus Harwood ? What does this mean ? (Mrs. Har- 
wood makes convulsive efforts to speak and to rise from her 
chair I) 

Dolff. — I don't know why you speak in such a tone. 
There is no harm, I suppose, in my father — being alive. 
We never knew till the other day. Perhaps she (pointing 
to his mother^) can tell you why. Is there any harm in my 
father — not having died? 

Dr. Harding. — Harm ! Adolphus Harwood alive !— 
harm ! Only this harm — that I can't let old friendship 
stand in the way. I dare not do injustice ; he must be 
given up to answer for his ill-doings. Harm ! The fool ! 
He never did but what was the worst for him ! to live till 
now — with all the misery and the ruin that he brought 

Dolff (seizing the doctor by the breast). — Stop ! Tell 



2 26 MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 

me what he has done ? — I knew — I knew there was more 
in it; what has he done? 

Dr. Harding {flinging the young man off). — Done! 
ruined everybody that ever trusted in him ! Don't stop me, 
young man ! Keep yourself clear of him ! I cannot help 
it ; I am sorry for your sake — but he must be given up. 
{He picks up his hat and begins to button his coat.) 

Dolff. — To what? To what? (He jumps in front of 
Dr. Harding and raises his arm excitedly as if to strike.) 
Look here ! to what? You don't stir a foot from here till 
you tell me. 

Mrs. Harwood (stumbling in between the two men, put- 
ting one hand on Dr. Harding s breast and pushing her son 
away with the other) . — John Harding ! John Harding, 
listen to me! He is mad — mad, do you hear? Mad! 
What is that but dead ? 

Dolff. — Mother, let this man answer me ! 

Mrs. Harwood. — Oh, go away, go away with your folly ! — 
He is mad, John Harding ! He came back to me mad — 
could I turn my husband to the door, give him up to the 
police ? Listen to me (she seizes his coat to hold herself up) 
you can see him yourself if you doubt me — he is mad 
(she shrieks) . Mad as a March hare, — silly ! Oh, John 
Harding, John Harding, hear what I have got to say ! 

Dr. Harding (he suddenly changes, becomes a professional 
man ; he throws down his hat and holds her fast by the 
elbows). — Wheel her chair forward. Young Harw T ood, 
gently, send for her maid. Heavens, boy, be gentle ; do 
you want to kill your mother ? Janet, come round here 
and put the cushions straight, to support her head. There, 
quiet all of you. Let her rest ; and you, Janet, give her 
air. 

Dolff (passionately). — She has done it before. Oh, I 



MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 2 27 

am not taken in, mother. Let her alone, man, and answer 
me ! 

Dr. Harding (he pushes the young man away). — Go to 
the devil ! You confounded cub, be quiet, and let the poor 
woman come to herself ! (-Dolff goes to one side and with 
an injured air watches affairs.) Give me the fan (to Janet). 
Get some wine and moisten her lips. Such an effort as 
that to a woman in her state might be fatal. She must 
have the constitution of an elephant. Once before, did 
you say? Janet, my little darling, you're made for a doc- 
tor's wife. Now raise her head a little. There ! Now I 
hope she'll come to. 

Dolff (he comes up and strikes him on the shoulder) . — 
You make yourself busy about my mother. There's nothing 
the matter with my mother : but you've got to explain to 
me — What does it mean? What do you want with him? 
W r hat has he done ? I never knew he was there till the 
other day. And then I never suspected he was my father. 
Oh, don't you know when one never has had a father, what 
one thinks he must have been? And then to see — that ! 
But I must have satisfaction. What has he done ? What 
are you going to do? 

Enter Gussy and Meredith hastily. 

Gussy (glancing at Mrs. Harwood). — Is my mother ill? 
Something has gone wrong. Dolff, who is this gentleman ? 
And for heaven's sake tell me what is it now? What has 
gone wrong? (She goes to her brother's side and stands 
looking on.) 

Dr. Harding. — I presume that you are Miss Harwood, but 
I cannot explain this matter to you. The less you know of 
it the better, my dear young people. I have no ill-feeling 
to your poor father — not the least, not the least : though 
I was one of the victims, I hope I've forgiven him freely. 



228 MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 

But justice is justice. If Adolphus Harwood is in this house, 
he must be given up. 

Meredith. — Dear Gussy, will you take my advice and go 
away, and get Dolff to go? Let me speak to this gentle- 
man. I know all about the business affairs. I am to ap- 
pear for your mother, you know. Let me speak to him 
and hear what he has to say. (She gives a faint smile. 
They all stand round the doctor, as if hemming him in.) 

Dr. Harding {with emotion). — God knows how I feel for 
you, your poor children. You break my heart ; but if Adol- 
phus Harwood has been living quietly here, living in com- 
fort and luxury here, after bringing so many to ruin 

Meredith. — He has been living concealed in a couple 
of rooms for fifteen years. I don't know who you are, or 
what right you have to be here, or to inquire into the 
affairs of this family. 

Gussy. — Oh, hush ! He will be a friend, he has a kind 
face ! 

Julia. — His name is Dr. Harding, he came for Janet, 
but mamma said he was an old friend : and Dolff told him 
by chance that he — he, you know — was living and not 
dead. 

Dr. Harding. — This is all mere madness. I did not 
want to know anything of the affairs of the family, but I 
have my duty to do 1 must do what is my duty. 

Mrs. Harwood (faintly from her chair) . — See him ; see 
him, see him : a doctor, he will know. {All turn round 
startled.) 

Meredith (seizing the doctors arm). — Come here and 
look at the man for yourself. (They step to the door and 
look out All watch them. The following dialogue is heard 
from without) 

Harwood (without). — Why do you bring me in, when I 



MRS. HARWOOD's SECRET. 229 

don't want to come in, Vicars? Dark — I like it when its 
dark and nobody can see. 

Vicars (without). — It don't do you no good, sir, to be 
out in the dark. 

Harwood {without). — Ah! there's an open door. I'm 
going to see them, Vicars. Their mother tells them lies, 
but when they know I have it all here to pay up 

Vicars (without). — No, sir; you can't go in there to- 
night. 

Harwood. — Why not to-night? Did she say so? She 
wants to get my money from me, that's what it is ! Swear, 
Vicars, you'll never tell them where I keep my money ! 
She got it and gave it to that fellow, but it came back, eh, 
Vicars? It always comes back. Ha, ha, ha! (Laughing 
foolishly?) Where are you taking me? You are taking me 
upstairs. You want me to be murdered for my money in 
that dark hole upstairs. (A door without closes.) 

Meredith (as they turn back to platform). — Is this the 
man you are going to give up to punishment ? 

Dr. Harding (He turns away and covers his face with 
his hands. In the intense silence he turns back and meets 
Mrs. Harwood* s agonized gaze). — What does he mean 
about the money? 

Mrs. Harwood. — He means what he thinks he has in 

his pocket-book money to pay everybody. Oh, John 

Harding, that's no dishonest meaning. He gives it 

to me, to pay up and then he is restless till he has it 

back again. There's nothing but old papers, old bills, 
worth nothing. He thinks (eagerly) that it is the money he 
took to Spain. (She has forgotten herself?) 

Dr. Harding. — And where is the money he took to Spain ? 

Mrs. Harwood ( She hesitates, looks round and then 
bursts into hysterical laughter). — He ! He ! He ! He 



23O MRS. HARWOOD'S SECRET. 

thinks that I know everything. How can I tell? Where 
are the snows of last year? 

Dr. Harding (after a moment's thought}. — Fear not, I 
shall do nothing, — Come, Janet, come with me. You have 
cheated me out of six months. I might have had you six 
months ago. 

Janet. — Oh, no, no, Dr. Harding. {Dr. Harding and 
Janet go out as curtain falls .) 

CURTAIN. 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 



Adapted from Goldsmith's " Vicar of Wakefield." 



CHARACTERS. 

Dr. Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield. 

Mrs. Primrose, his wife. 

George, his oldest son, who is an officer in the army. 

Olivia, his oldest daughter, who has run away with the 
landlord, who afterwa?'d abandoned her. 

Sophia, another daughter, in love with Mr. Burchell. 

Moses, another son. 

Squire Thornhill, a young man, landlord to the Primroses. 

Mr. Burchell, a poor but well-educated man, who becomes 
a frioid to the family, and afterward turns out to be 
Sir William Thornhill, uncle to the landlord. 

Mr. Jenkinson, a middle-aged man who has lived on his 

wits till he finds himself in prison y and now repents. 
The Jailer, and two servants. 
Baxter, a very tall, long-legged man, with red hair. 

Situation. — Through the villainy of Squire Thornhill, Dr. 
Primrose has been thrown into fail for debt. His 
family are with him. Jenkinson recognizes him as a 
former victim and tries to repair the wro??g by kindness 
in the prison. Olivia has stopped outside because of 
bad health consequent on her disgrace from the land- 

2 3 l 



232 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

lord's abando?iment of her. Dr. Primrose believes her 
dead at the opening of this scene. 

The scene is a room in prison. Dr. Primrose is 
lying in a very weak condition on a couch against the 
wall. 

Scene I. 

Jenkinson enters the room where Dr. Primrose is already 
lying 07t a couch of some rough material. 

Primrose (to Jenkins 071). — Well, sir, you discover the 
temper of the man that oppresses me. But let him use 
me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts 
to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that 
looks brighter as I approach it ; and though I leave a 
helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be 
utterly forsaken ; some friend, perhaps, will be found to 
assist them for the sake of their poor father, and some may 
charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly 
Father. 

Enter Mrs. Primrose, with looks of tewor, vainly st7-uggling 

to speak. 

(To Mrs. Primi-ose!) — Why, my love, will you thus in- 
crease my afflictions by your own ? What though no sub- 
missions can turn our severe master, though he has doomed 
me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we 
have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in 
your other children when I shall be no more. 

Mrs. Primrose. — We have indeed lost a darling chna. 
My Sophia, my dearest, is gone ; snatched from us, carried 
off by ruffians ! 

Jenkinson. — How, madam ; Miss Sophia carried off by 
villains ? sure it cannot be ! 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 233 

Mrs. Primrose {through her sobs). — Yes! as we were 
walking together a little way out of the village, a post-chaise 
and pair drove up to us and stopped instantly ; then a well- 
dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepped out, clasped 
my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bade the 
postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a mo- 
ment. 

Primrose. — Now, the sum of my miseries is made up, 
nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me an- 
other pang. What ! not one left ! — not to leave me one ! — 
The monster ! — The child that was next my heart ! — she 
had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an 
angel. — {To Jenkins on?) But support that woman, nor let 
her fall. — Not to leave me one ! 

Mrs. Primrose. — Alas ! my husband, you seem to want 
comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great, but I 
could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. (Moses 
ente7'S with a letter zuhich he has Just read in his hand, but 
stops a moment as he co?nprehends the situation.) They 
may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave 
me but you. 

Moses. — My dear father, I hope there is still something 
that will give you an interval of satisfaction ; for I have a 
letter from my brother George 

Primrose {interrupting). — What of him, child? Does 
he know our misery? I hope my boy is exempt from any 
part of what his wretched family suffers. 

Moses. — Yes, sir, he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. 
His letter brings nothing but good news ; he is the favorite 
of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next 
lieutenancy that becomes vacant. 

Mrs. Primrose. — And are you sure of all this? 

Moses. — You shall see the letter. {Jle. hands it to her 



234 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

and she reads it to herself. Then he goes out, followed by 
Jenkins on.) 

Primrose. — In all our miseries, what thanks have we not to 
return, that one at least of our family is exempted from what 
we suffer ! Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus 
happy, to be the support of his widowed mother, and the 
father of our two babes, which is all the patrimony I can 
now bequeath him ! ( Considerable disturbance is heard 
outside. It dies away and the sound of clanking chains is 
heard. Then the Jailer enters with George in chains, 
JDr, Primrose starts up with horror,} My George ! my 
George ! and do I behold thee thus? Wounded — fettered ! 
Is this thy happiness? Is this the manner you return to 
me? Oh, that this sight could break my heart at once, 
and let me die ! {The Jailer goes out) 

George (with a faltering voice), — Where, sir, is your 
fortitude ? I must suffer ; my life is forfeited, and let them 
take it. Sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile 
death I must shortly suffer. 

Primrose. — My child you must not die ; I am sure no 
offence of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. 

George. — Mine, sir, I fear is an unpardonable crime. 
When I received my mother's letter from home, I imme- 
diately came down, determined to punish the betrayer of 
our honor, and sent him an order to meet me. He an- 
swered not in person, but by despatching four of his domes- 
tics to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, 
and I fear desperately ; but the rest made me their prisoner. 
The proofs are undeniable ; I have sent a challenge, and as 
I am the first transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes 
of pardon. But you have often charmed me with your 
lessons of fortitude ; let me now, sir, find them in your 
example. 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 235 

Primrose. — And, my son, you shall find them. From 
this moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it 
down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. 

Enter Jenkinson, who pauses for a moment. 

Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall 
guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight together. 

Jenkinson. — My dear sir, there is news of your daughter. 
She was seen two hours ago in a strange gentleman's com- 
pany. They stopped in the village for refreshment and 

Enter Jailer in haste. 
Jailer. — Your daughter is found, sir. 

Enter Moses, running. 

Moses. — Sister Sophia is here, and is coming up with 
our old friend Mr. Burchell. {The Jailer goes out with 
George, and Jenkinson follows^) 

Enter Sophia, rushing to kiss her father and her mother ; 
followed by Mr. Burchell. 

Sophia. — Here, papa, is the brave man to whom I owe 
my delivery ; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted 

for my happiness and (Mr. Burchell interrupts her 

with a kiss.) 

Primrose. — Ah ! Mr. Burchell, this is but a wretched 
habitation you now find us in ; and we are now very dif- 
ferent from what you last saw us. You were ever our friend ; 
but after the vile usage you then received at my hands, I 
am almost ashamed to behold your face. Yet I hope you'll 
forgive me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, 
who, under the mask of friendship, has undone me. 

Burchell. — It is impossible that I should forgive you, 
as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your 



236 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

delusion then, and as it was out of my power to restrain, I 
could only pity it. 

Primrose. — It was ever my conjecture that your mind 
was noble ; but now I find it so. — Welcome, then, my child ! 
and thou, her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! 
Though our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are 
ready to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have 
delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she is 
yours : if you can stoop to an alliance with a family so poor 
as mine, take her • obtain her consent, — as I know you 
have her heart, — and you have mine. 

Burchell. — But I suppose, sir, that you are apprised of 
my circumstances and of my incapacity to support her as 
she deserves? 

Primrose. — If your present objection be meant as an 
evasion of my offer, I desist ; but I know no man so worthy 
to deserve her as you ; and if I could give her thousands, 
and thousands sought her from me, yet my honest brave 
Burchell should be my dearest choice. 

Burchell (turning abruptly). — Can I be furnished with 
refreshments from the next inn? 

Primrose. — Probably there will be no difficulty. Moses, 
my boy, go call the jailer. (Moses goes out and imme- 
diately returns with the Jailer?) 

Burchell. — Mr. Jailer, can you provide us with a table 
and order us from the nearest inn the best dinner possible 
upon such short notice? 

Jailer (with a low bow), — Very readily, sir. 

Primrose. — I wish, too, — Ah, Sophia, you did not know 
your brother was here. (To the Jailer.) Cannot he come 
to share this little interval of satisfaction? And Mr. Jen- 
kinson, my fellow-prisoner? 

Jailer. — Certainly, sir. (He goes out. Sophia looks in 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 23/ 

dumb amazement from one to another^ and as George enters 
runs to meet him, recoiling at sight of chains J) 

Burchell. — Is your son's name George? 

Primrose. — That is his name. (Burchell seems lost in 
thought.) 

Jailer enters with George, and then retires. Enter Jen- 

kinson. 

Come on, my son ; though we are fallen very low, yet 
Providence has been pleased to grant us some small relaxa- 
tion from pain. Thy sister is restored to us and there is 
her deliverer : to that brave man it is that I am indebted 
for yet having a daughter • give him, my boy, the hand of 
friendship ; he deserves our warmest gratitude. ( George 
looks at Mr. Burchell with astonishment and revet e7ice, and 
keeps at a respectftil distance, unmindful of his father's 
words.) 

Sophia. — My dear brother, why don't you thank my good 
deliverer? The brave should ever love each other. 

Burchell (finding that George recognizes him, he looks 
at the boy with a superior air.) — I again find, unthinking 
boy, that the same crime — (Ente? Jailer who sttps up to 
Burchell and whispers in his ear.) Bid the fellow wait till 
I have leisure to receive him. (The Jailer goes out) — I 
again find, sir, that you are guilty of the same offence for 
which you once had my reproof, and for which the law is 
now preparing its justest punishments. Where, sir, is the 
difference between a duellist, who hazards a life of no value, 
and the murderer who acts with greater security? 

Primrose. — Alas, sir, whoever you are, pity the poor mis- 
guided creature ; for what he has done was in obedience to 
a deluded mother, who, in the bitterness of her resentment, 
required him, upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. 



238 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

Here, sir, is the letter which will serve to convince you of 
her imprudence, and diminish his guilt. 

Burchell (he takes the letter and reads it hastily), — 
This, though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of 
his fault as induces me to forgive him. And now, sir (he 
steps up to George and shakes him by the hand), I see you 
are surprised at finding me here ; but I have often visited 
prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now come 
to see justice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most 
sincere esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator of 
thy father's benevolence. I have, at his little dwelling, en- 
joyed respect uncontaminated by flattery ; and have received 
that happiness that courts could not give, from the amusing 
simplicity around his fireside. My nephew has been ap- 
prised of my intentions of coming here, and I find, is 
arrived. It would be wronging him and you to condemn 
him without examination : if there be injury, there shall be 
redress; and this I may say without boasting that none 
have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill. 
(He indicates himself with a gesture and all are amazed, 
while Sophia bursts into tears.) 

Mrs. Primrose (piteous ly). — Ah ! sir, how is it possible 
that I can ever have your forgiveness? The slights you 
received from me the last time I had the honor of seeing 
you at our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw 
out — these jokes, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven. 

Burchell (with a smile). — My dear good lady, if you 
had your joke, I had my answer : I'll leave it to all the 
company if mine were not as good as yours. To say the 
truth, I know nobody whom I am disposed to be angry 
with at present but the fellow who so frightened my little 
girl here. I had not even time to examine the rascal's 
person so as to describe him in an advertisement. Can 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 239 

you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should know 
him again? 

Sophia. — Indeed, sir, I can't be positive ; yet now I 
recollect, he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows. 

Jenkinson (he has been in the background, btit now pushes 
forward, interrupting her), — I ask pardon, madam, but be 
so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair? 

Sophia. — I think so. 

Jenkinson (to Burchell) . — And did your honor observe 
the length of his legs? 

Burchell.— I can't be sure of their length, but I am 
convinced of their swiftness ; for he outran me, which is 
what I thought few men in the kingdom could have done. 

Jenkinson. — Please your honor, I know the man : it is 
certainly the same ; the best runner in England \ Timothy 
Baxter is his name ; I know him perfectly, and the very 
place of his retreat this moment. If your honor will bid 
Mr. Jailer let two of his men go with me, I'll engage to 
produce him to you in an hour at farthest. 

Burchell. — Will some one call the Jailer? {Moses 
goes oict and returns with him. To the Jailer.) Do you 
know who I am? 

Jailer. — Yes, please your honor, I know Sir William 
Thornhill well, and everybody that knows anything of him 
will desire to know more of him. 

Burchell. — Well, then, my request is that you will per- 
mit this man and two of your servants to go upon a message 
by my authority ; and as I am in the commission of the 
peace, I undertake to secure you. 

Jailer. — Your promise is sufficient, and you may at a 
minute's warning, send them over England whenever your 
honor thinks fit. {The Jailer and Jenkinson go out and the 
curtain falls .) 



24O INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

Scene II. 

There are present, as the curtain rises, Sir William Thorn- 
hill, Dr. Primrose, Mrs. Primrose, Sophia and 
Moses. Enter Squire Thornhill, nephew to Sir 
William, and landlord to the Primroses. 

Sir William (to Squire, who is going to embrace his 
uncle). — No fawning, sir, at present ; the only way to ray 
heart is by the road of honor ; but here I only see com- 
plicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression. 
How is it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you 
professed a friendship, is used thus hardly? His daughter 
vilely seduced as a recompense for his hospitality, and he 
himself thrown into prison perhaps but for resenting the 
insult ? His son, too, whom you feared to face as a man 

Squire (interrupting suavely). — Is it possible, sir, that 
my uncle should object that as a crime which his repeated 
instructions alone have persuaded me to avoid ? 

Sir William. — Your rebuke is just ; you have acted in 
this instance prudently and well, though not quite as your 
father would have done : my brother, indeed, was the soul 
of honor ; but thou — Yes, you have acted in this instance 
perfectly right, and it has my warmest approbation. 

Squire. — And I hope that the rest of my conduct will 
not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, with 
this gentleman's daughter at some places of public amuse- 
ment ; thus what was levity, scandal called by a harsher 
name. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear 
the thing to his satisfaction, and he received me only with 
insult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his being 
here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as I 
commit the management of business entirely to them. If 
he has contracted debts, and is unwilling, or even unable 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 24 I 

to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner ; 
and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most 
legal means of redress. 

Sir William. — If this be as you have stated it, there is 
nothing unpardonable in your offence ; and though your 
conduct might have been more generous in not suffering 
this gentleman to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet 
it has been at least equitable. 

Squire. — He cannot contradict a single particular ; I 
defy him to do so ; and several of my sen-ants are ready 
to attest what I say. Thus, sir, my own innocence is vin- 
dicated ; but though at your entreaty I am ready to forgive 
this gentleman every other offence, yet his attempts to 
lessen me in your esteem excite a resentment that I cannot 
govern. And this, too, at a time when his son was actually 
preparing to take away my life, — this, I say, was such guilt, 
that I am determined to let the law take its course. I 
have here the challenge that was sent me, and two wit- 
nesses to prove it : one of my servants has been wounded 
dangerously; and even though my uncle himself should 
dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public 
justice done, and he shall suffer for it. 

Mrs. Primrose. — Thou monster ! hast thou not had ven- 
geance enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy 
cruelty? I hope that good Sir William will protect us ; for 
my son is as innocent as a child ; I am sure he is, and 
never did harm to man. 

Sir Willlam. — Madam, your wishes for his safety are not 
greater than mine ; but I am sorry to find his guilt too 

plain ; and if my nephew persists (Jenkins on and the 

servants of the Jailer here enter, dragging a very tall man 
with red hair.) 

Jenkinson. — Here — here we have him ; and if ever there 



242 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

was a candidate of Tyburn, this is one. (At sight of these 
men the Squire shrinks back and attempts to escape, but 
Jenkinson stops him.) What, Squire, are you ashamed of 
your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter? But 
this is the way that all great men forget their friends, though 
I am resolved we will not forget you. — (To Sir William.) 
Our prisoner has already confessed all. This is the gentle- 
man reported to be so dangerously wounded. He declares 
that it was Mr. Thornhill (pointing to the Squire), who first 
put him upon this affair ; that he gave him the clothes he 
now wears to appear like a gentleman, and furnished him 
with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between them that 
he should carry off the young lady to a place of safety, and 
that there he should threaten and terrify her. But Mr. 
Thornhill was to come in, in the mean time, as if by acci- 
dent to her rescue ; and that they should fight awhile, and 
then he was to run off, — by which Mr. Thornhill would 
have the better opportunity of gaining her affections him- 
self, under the character of her defender. 

Sir William. — I remember that I have seen that coat on 
my nephew. — Baxter, is this your confession? 

Baxter. — Yes, please your honor, and more. Mr. Thorn- 
hill has often said to me that he was in love with both 
sisters at the same time. 

Sir William. — Heavens ! what a viper have I been foster- 
ing in my bosom ! And so fond of public justice, too, as 
he seemed to be ! But he shall have it ; secure him, Mr. 
Jailer. — Yet hold ! I fear there is not legal evidence to 
detain him. 

Squire (with great humility) . — I entreat you, sir, not to 
admit as evidence against me the testimony of two such 
abandoned wretches ; I ask you to examine my servants. 

Sir William. — Your servants ! Wretch ! call them yours 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 243 

no longer ; but come, let us hear what those fellows have 
to say; let his butler be called. (The Jailer goes out and 
brings him in.) Tell me (sternly to butler), have you seen 
your master and that fellow dressed up in his clothes in 
company together? 

Butler. — Yes, please your honor, a thousand times : he 
was the man that always brought him his ladies. 

Squire. — How ! this to my face? 

Butler. — Yes, or to any man's face. To tell you a 
truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked 
you, and I don't care if I tell you now a piece of my 
mind. 

Jenkinson. — Now then, tell his honor whether you know 
anything of me. 

Butler. — I can't say that I know much good of you. 
The night that gentleman's daughter was deluded to our 
house, you were one of them. 

Sir William. — So then I find you have brought a very 
fine witness to prove your innocence : thou stain of huma- 
nity ! to associate with such wretches ! — (To the butler.) 
But you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the person who 
brought him this old gentleman's daughter. 

Butler. — No, please your honor, he did not bring her, 
for the Squire himself undertook that business; but he 
brought the priest that married them. 

Squire. — You lie, like a rascal ! I was never legally 
married to any woman. 

Sir William. — Good heavens ! how every new discovery 
of his villainy alarms me ! At my request, Mr. Jailer, set 
that young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust me 
for the consequences. But where is the unfortunate young 
lady herself? Let her appear to confront this wretch. 

Jenkinson. — Indeed, begging your honor's pardon, if the 



244 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

company can restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they 
shall see her. (He darts off.) 

Squire. — Ay, let him go ; whatever else I may have done, 
I defy him there. I am too old to be frightened with squibs. 

Sir William. — I am surprised what the fellow can intend 
by this. Some low piece of humor, I suppose ! 

Primrose. — Perhaps, sir, he may have a more serious 
meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes this 
gentleman (referring to the Squire) has laid to seduce in- 
nocence, perhaps some one more artful than the rest has 
been found able to deceive him. When we consider what 
numbers he 

Enter Jenkinson with Olivia. 

Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter? Do I hold her? 
It is, it is my life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, my 
Olivia, yet still I hold thee — and still thou shalt live to bless 
me. And art thou returned to me, my darling, to be my 
comfort in age? 

Jenkinson. — That she is and make much of her, for she 
is your own honorable child, and as honest a woman as any 
in the whole room, let the other be who she will. And as 
for you, Squire, as sure as you stand there, this young lady 
is your lawful wedded wife ; and to convince you that I 
speak nothing but the truth, here is the license by which 
you were married together. (He hands it to Sir William.) 

Sir William (after reading it carefully). — I find this per- 
fect in every respect. 

Jenkinson. — And now, gentlemen, a few words will ex- 
plain the difficulty. That there Squire of renown com- 
missioned me to procure him a false license and a false 
priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was 
very much his friend, what did I do, but went and got a 



INNOCENCE REWARDED. 245 

true license and a true priest, and married them Doth as 
fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you'll think 
it was generosity that made me do all this ; but no, to my 
shame I confess it, my only design was to keep the license 
and let the Squire know that I could prove it upon him 
whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down 
whenever I wanted money. (A murmur of delight runs 
through the group, except that the Squire looks very crest- 
fallen and falls before his wide, wringing his hands.} 

Sir William (raising his foot and hand to kick him out, 
but suddenly stopping a moment, he speaks). — Thy vices, 
crimes and ingratitude deserve no tenderness; yet thou 
shalt not be entirely forsaken, — a bare competence shall be 
supplied to support the wants of life, but not its follies. 
This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a 
third part of that fortune which once was thine, and from 
her tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary 
supplies for the future. 

Squire (he has been raised to his feet by Sir William 
dining the p7'e ceding speech, and now makes a formal bow). 
— I return the greatest thanks — such kindness 

Sir William. — Hold ! do not aggravate a meanness which 
is but too apparent. Be gone from our sight, and from all 
your former domestics choose one as you think proper ; for 
this is all that shall be granted to attend you. ( The Squire 
goes out and Sir William turns to the group with a smile.) 
I think now that all the company, except one or two, seem 
perfectly happy. There only remains an act of justice foi 
me to do. (Turning to Dr. Primrose.) You are sensible, 
sir, of the obligations we both owe to Mr. Jenkinson ; and 
it is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia 
will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he shall have 
from me five hundred pounds as her fortune ; and upon 



246 INNOCENCE REWARDED. 

this I am sure they can live very comfortably together. 
Come, Miss Sophia, what, say you to this match of my 
making? Will you have him? 

Sophia {recoils and almost falls into her mother's arms). 
— Have him, sir ! no, sir, never ! 

Sir William. — What ! not have Mr. Jenkinson, your 
benefactor, a handsome young fellow, with five hundred 
pounds, and good expectations? 

Sophia {hardly able to speak). — I beg, sir, that you'll 
desist, and not make me so very wretched. 

Sir William. — Was ever such obstinacy known? To 
refuse a man whom the family have such infinite obligations 
to, who has preserved your sister, and who has five hundred 
pounds ! What ; not have him ? 

Sophia. — No, sir, never ! I'd sooner die first. 

Sir William. — If that be the case, then, if you will not 
have him — I think I must have you myself. {He catches 
her in his arms.) My loveliest, my most sensible of girls, 
how could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive 
you, or that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to ad- 
mire one that loved him for himself alone? I have sought 
some years for a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, 
could think that I had merit as a man. After having tried 
in vain, even amongst the pert and ugly, how great at last 
must be my rapture to have made a conquest over such 
sense and such heavenly beauty. {Turning to Je?iki?ison.) 
As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady myself, for she 
has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense 
I can make is to give you her fortune ; and you may call 
upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds. 

CURTAIN, 



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